I'm looking for peer reviews. The assignment is a flash narrative and is supposed to be around 1000 words. I've gone a bit over and wonder if there's anything I should cut down. The peer reviews I got in class were somewhat underwhelming so I wanted to share it here.

"Moki Dugway"

“We can have a trailer out there to meet you around six-thirty. It’ll take about an hour to tow your bike into town, but the tire shop wont be open till mornin.” Her voice cut in and out over the phone.

If they come for me now I’d have to find a place to stay in Henderson and didn’t have much money. The September sky was still warm as the sun began to dip. Red cliffs cast a shadow over the vast desert I had crossed earlier in the day. What a beautiful place to be stranded with a flat, I thought. I was going to fall behind schedule, how far behind? At least a day to get the tire replaced. What then?

I quickly weighed my options before replying, “Can you come for me in the morning?”

“If that’s what you want,” she chuckled. “But we could bring you in tonight, you can stay at the RV park. I know em, and they'll find a place for ya. Up to you.”

I walked to the edge of the road and looked across the vista, answered, “Going into town won’t do me much good with the shop being closed. I think I’ll just spend the night here. I’ve already reached out to my provider, but service is spotty.”

“I’ll send someone tomorrow then, just pulled a Harley out there last week, we know the area. And don’t worry about insurance, I’ll deal with em later. You, um,” she hesitated, “You gonna be safe out there?” “I’ve got what I need, besides it’s peaceful here. Wish you could see the view.” I replied. She laughed briefly and said something, but it cut out.

“Well okay then,” her voice came back, “I’ll need your coordinates to send my driver.”

“I have them, give me a second” I navigated to Google Maps. “Are you ready?” There was a pause. “I have the coordinates, can you-” the call dropped. No service, no roaming. I tried to call her back, wouldn’t connect. Waited, tried again. Nothing.

I turned to face the motorcycle which was parked in a sandy pullout carrying my camping equipment. The rear tire had completely worn through the tread, Such a stupid mistake, I thought. The road angled 40 yards uphill to my left and cut back right above the sandy pullout. It continued higher and higher along a narrow cliff ledge until it wrapped around a buttress to the north and out of sight. This was the beginning of the trail.

The Moki Dugway is an unpaved road carved into the cliff side of Cedar Mesa, Southeast Utah, Navajo Nation. It’s well known for its steep grade, narrow passages, and exposed precipitous drops. Accidents are rare on the Dugway, but a mistake would be catastrophic. I was stuck at the bottom where the desert met the base of the cliffs.

Did I make the right decision? Will someone even come for me? I felt doubtful for the fist time, isolated, desperate, probably in over my head. I’d already been on the road for days, camping in various climates and conditions, and solving smaller problems along the way. I was clearly showing signs of prolonged exposure to the elements, but had enough food and water, and felt strong physically. “They’ll come,” I verbalized.

I intended to sleep under the stars with the motorcycle, but was deterred by a healthy tarantula population and set up a small bivy tent behind the bike. There was still some daylight left, but the 800 foot sandstone walls immediately to my west kept me shaded. Undone straps and cords dripped from the motorcycle, along with my water bag, backpack, and various pieces of gear hanging from the handlebars. The camp was taking shape, lightweight, but functional.

I’d done everything I could for the day, cracked a beer, and sat in my chair next to the bike when a truck approached. It rolled past, then braked, reversed, and stopped in front of me.

“You okay?” he asked. His preteen daughter was sitting in the passenger seat and spoke before I could, “See, I told you! He has a flat tire!” Then I answered, “I’ve got a truck coming tomorrow from Henderson, I’ll be alright.” The father replied, “Okay, just thought we’d check in. We’re from Missouri, you ever been up this road before?” “Nah man, just to here.” I laughed amusingly. “If you come back down you better tell me how it was.” They departed.

More travelers passed by, stopping to check on me. They came from allover the world and had their own stories to tell. Our purposes, objectives, and backgrounds varied, but we shared the same time and space in this corner of the world; total strangers, yet seemingly connected by the land. In some way, being stranded began to feel like a high point. Wouldn’t have planned for it, could never repeat it. A worst case scenario, and the best night of the trip.

Faint stars began to glimmer in the twilight when a single biker came up the road. I stood up to greet the fellow motorist who flipped up his visor, only revealing his eyes. He shouted, “Terrible luck!” He dismounted the bike leaving it in middle of the road, engine still purring quietly. He took off the helmet revealing an old face, weathered, but clean cut with medium length gray hair swept back behind his ears. “I’ve got a plug kit and compressor if you need it.” he offered as he rest the helmet. “It's worn through, think a plug will help?” I said.

“Worn through?” he stepped passed me and flashed a light on the tire, knelt down. “Got your full mileage on that one kid.” He said, smiling wryly as he turned towards me and stood up. I felt embarrassed.

“I’m making the most of it, kinda live for this stuff.” My thoughts were between drunken optimism and sober apathy. He seemed to disregard the comment, which was after all a vapid expression; easily tossed around within the moto-camping community. He was clearly more experienced and better equipped.

“You’ll only make that mistake once, we’ve all been there,” He said, remaining respectful. He began walking back around his bike, “I’m coming back down tomorrow heading south to Kayenta, If you’re still here I can-” “I have a truck coming tomorrow, if you reach service can you tell them where I’m at?” I cut him off. “I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect any miracles. Cell coverage isn’t any better in the towns.”

I never saw or heard from him again, same for the others I met on the road.

It was total dark. No moon, only stars and the soft glow of the Milky Way stretching across the sky. There were flashes of lightning in the distance to the south, and coyotes howling in the darkness below. With the way things have gone I had no idea what to expect for tomorrow. I had a plan, but if there’s anything I learned, the plan always changes.

The below written scene happens after something like 10-12k word of the story, but can be read independently too, as it sort-of recaps the some of the events in-story. Wanted some feedback in the Dialogue and Pacing department
____
 

I grabbed my overcoat from the drawer, a necessary accessory for any self-respecting investigator—or so I told myself. It was more about getting into character, feeling like I was stepping into a role that would help me unravel the mystery of last night.

As I reached for the door, my eyes caught the key stand. My bike—the one that should have been my ride to the afterlife—was nowhere to be found. The keys weren't on the stand, nor had I found them in the clothes I was wearing during the accident. It was as if the bike had vanished into thin air.

The exact location of the accident was a blur, a hazy memory lost in the chaos of that night. To be honest, who pays attention to their surroundings when the accelerator is stuck on high and the brakes have decided to take an unannounced vacation? I had a general idea of the area, but with a margin of error of a kilometer or two, it wasn't exactly encouraging.

Untrusting of machines that run on petroleum, I opted for my trusty bicycle. I grabbed the lock key and slipped out the door, careful not to wake my sister. The investigation was about to begin.

...

...

You know what...I shouldn't have worn the damn overcoat.

Seriously, who rides a bicycle in the middle of the city looking like Sherlock Holmes' eccentric cousin? The morning rush, though thankfully lighter than a weekday, was still enough to earn me a collection of bewildered stares. I’m pretty sure I'll never forget the little kid in the kindergarten uniform pointing at me and asking his mom, "Mommy, look at that funny man!" And the mother, damn he-ahem, I mean, bless her judgmental soul, telling him not to stare at strange people.

Well, water under the bridge, I guess. Just another awkward memory to bury under a mountain of even more awkward memories. Wait… doesn’t that mean I need more awkward moments to bury the previous ones? It’s like some sort of Ouroboros of cringe.

Anyway, the closer I got to the supposed accident site, the more deserted the streets became. Like, seriously deserted. I hadn't seen a single soul in the last two minutes. I just kept pedaling, following the highway, which was supposed to be bustling with traffic. Even for a Saturday, this was ridiculous. Where was everyone?

Suddenly, my vision blurred, like a rush of wind had hit me square in the face. I stopped, rubbing my eyes. “What the hell was that?” I muttered, glancing around. Nothing. Just empty road stretching out before me. Shrugging it off, I got back on the bike and continued.

Moments later, two figures materialized in the distance, decked out in full SWAT gear, complete with intimidating-looking firearms. “Oh shit, don't tell me…” I mumbled, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. They noticed me immediately. A flicker of confusion crossed their faces before hardening into steely determination. With reflexes that would make a ninja jealous, they raised their weapons, aiming directly at me.

“HALT! DO NOT MOVE!” one of them barked, his voice amplified by some kind of speaker system.

“Whoa, easy there, fellas,” I said, trying to keep my voice light despite the fact that my heart was doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs. “Maybe point those big, black… persuasion devices somewhere else? I’m prone to nervous bladder malfunctions.”

“SHUT UP!” the other one yelled. “DISMOUNT THE VEHICLE! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

“Dismount? But she’s such a lovely steed,” I quipped, still perched on my bicycle. “Besides, why the sudden hospitality? I’m just out for a morning ride.”

“You are trespassing on a secured area!” the first one shouted. “Now, GET ON THE GROUND!”

“Secured area, huh?” I muttered as I swung my leg over the bike and placed it gently on the asphalt. “I just put on clean clothes this morning…” I raised my hands in mock surrender which earned me a grunt from the grumpy soldiers.

“Alright, alright, don't shoot. I'm going, I'm going.” I slowly lowered myself to the ground, the cool asphalt a stark contrast to the sudden heat that had flared up in my face. “Mind telling me what I’m being detained for?”

“You’re trespassing,” the first guard repeated, his voice laced with impatience. “Now shut the fuck up.”

I complied, but not without a sarcastic, “Well, that’s just lovely. Can I at least request a pillow? The ground’s a tad bit chilly.”

Ignoring my attempt at humor, one of the guards pulled out a transponder and started speaking into it. “Command, we’ve got an intruder in the third sector. Requesting instructions.”

I couldn’t make out the full reply, but I heard a few words that sent a shiver down my spine: “Detain... Bring to base...”

The guard gave a sharp, “Affirmative,” and then snapped back to me with an icy glare. “If you move even an inch, I’ll put a bullet in you. Understood?”

“Uh, does breathing count?” I asked, my voice a tad too shaky for my liking. “I’ve got a bit of a history with breathing issues.”

No reply. Just a cold stare and the muzzle of a gun pointed directly at me. The second guard walked over and cuffed my hands behind my back with a efficiency that made me wonder if he’d been a scout leader in a past life.

With my arms secured, they yanked me to my feet and marched me forward. The further we went, the more surreal the scene became. We crossed into an area littered with white and black tents, each bearing a strange symbol that looked like a cross between a biohazard sign and some ancient rune.

“Holy fuck,” I breathed, taking in the sight before me. There, in the center of it all, was a crater. A honest-to-god, ten-meter-wide crater, like someone had dropped a small meteor there. People in white hazmat suits were moving around, carrying equipment and taking measurements.

“What the hell happened here?” I muttered, more to myself than to my captors. But they didn’t respond. Just kept marching me forward, towards one of the larger tents.

As we approached the larger tent, a figure emerged from the shadows, silhouetted against the harsh artificial lights inside. This guy was different from the grunts who had apprehended me. He was dressed in a crisp, black suit that looked like it had been ironed with a razor's edge. His hair was slicked back, and he had an air about him that screamed authority—the kind of authority that didn't need a badge or a gun to make you feel small.

He eyed me with a mix of curiosity and annoyance, his gaze so intense it made me want to squirm. I felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, and I didn't like it one bit. There went my hope of going home anytime soon. Hell, I'd be lucky if they didn't decide to dissect me just to see what made me tick. Hopefully, they leave my dearest Excalibur alone, it deserves to be preserved for future generation's appreciative gaze.

"Is this the one?" he asked no one in particular, but Grumpy Guard Number One was quick to respond.

"Sir, yes, sir! We found him riding a bicycle straight toward the incident site."

Hey! How was I supposed to know they'd claimed the area? It's not like there was a big neon sign saying, "Top-Secret Illuminati Knockoff at Work."

"So, how are you guys doing here?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light despite the nervous tremor that threatened to give me away. "Found any aliens or anything?"

The suit didn't bat an eye. "No. Who sent you here?" Straight to the point, no bullshit. I had to admire his efficiency, even if it was currently directed at me like a lit blowtorch.

"Would you believe that I was just out to get some milk for my little babies at home?" I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous squeak.

He raised an eyebrow. "I might have been inclined to believe you if you hadn't bypassed multiple mystical fields undetected." He glanced at my overcoat with a look of distaste. "And that's me not mentioning anything about that ugly overcoat of yours."

"Hey, that's rude as fuck," I grumbled, genuinely offended. My overcoat was beautiful. Okay, maybe it was a bit worn, and the color was more of a dull brown than the rich chocolate it had been when I first bought it, but still. It had character. "And what's this mystical field you're talking about? I didn't see any field while coming here."

The suit stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "The mystical fields are designed to keep people out, to make them ignore this area entirely. The fact that you're here, that you managed to bypass them without so much as a blip on our radar..." He paused, his voice dropping to a low growl. "It makes me think you're not just some clueless idiot out for a bike ride."

I shrugged, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just your average, everyday clueless idiot. No mystical field-bypassing skills here." I spread my hands—well, as much as I could with them cuffed behind my back—and gave him a sheepish grin.

The suit didn't smile back. Instead, he gestured towards the tent. "We'll see about that. Bring him inside."

As they led me into the tent, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had just stepped into something far bigger and far more dangerous than I could have ever imagined. And all because I decided to wear that damn overcoat.

After strapping my hands to the arms of a chair that looked like it belonged in a low-budget spy thriller, the two grumpy guards left me alone in a bare-ass room inside the tent. I had been thoroughly searched, and they had taken everything I had on me, barring my clothes. They even made me pass through a weird metal-detector gate thing three times. Talk about lackadaisical efficiency.

The tent was larger than I had expected. Seriously, it looked more like a quickly assembled house than a tent from the inside. The walls were lined with various equipment and monitors, and the air was filled with a low hum of machinery. I couldn't help but feel a mix of curiosity and dread. What the hell was this place, and why was I here?

After what felt like an eternity, the suit guy entered the room, holding a tablet in his hand. He scrolled through it, his eyes flicking over the screen as he began to speak.

"Alexander Hartley, 28 years old, single child of Margaret and Thomas Hartley, who currently reside off-town. Graduated with a Bachelor's in Mechanical Engineering from State University, followed by a Master's in Computer Science. Currently working as a freelance 3D asset designer in the city."

He looked up from the tablet, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made me squirm. "Quite the impressive resume, Mr. Hartley."

I raised an eyebrow, trying to hide my growing unease. "Yeah, thanks for the recap, but I already know all that. It's not like I hit my head on a wall and lost my memories."

The suit guy ignored my sarcasm and continued, "Your parents are currently on a cruise, celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary. You have no siblings, no significant other, and your closest friend is a guy named Jake Thompson, whom you've known since high school."

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, the metal cuffs digging into my wrists. "Okay, so you've done your homework. What's your point?"

He set the tablet down on a nearby table and crossed his arms, leaning against the edge. "My point, Mr. Hartley, is that you're something of an enigma. You have no criminal record, no known affiliations with any organizations that would be interested in our... activities here. And yet, here you are, sitting in our tent, having bypassed our security measures without so much as a blink."

I shrugged, trying to maintain a facade of calm. "Like I said, I'm just a guy out for a bike ride with questionable dressing choices. Maybe your security measures need an upgrade, whatever these mystical fields you're using."

The man in the suit placed his finger on my chest, his gaze sharpening like a blade. "That is indeed a possibility, but the chances of that happening are vanishingly small. And in my line of work, we do not bet on chances. So how about you tell us how you bypassed three separate fifth-order mystical fields before we are forced to use... less than pleasant means to find the truth ourselves?"

I sighed in exasperation and looked straight into his eyes. "Before I answer your question, how about you answer some simple doubts of mine? A bit of pity for poor me?"

He walked back, pulled a chair, and sat down cross-legged, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. "Go on, ask your doubts. The chances of me giving answers to them are minuscule, but I'm willing to entertain them for a moment. Things have been going slow here, so I have some time to spare."

"Very encouraging," I muttered. "So, first question first, who are you people? What happened here?"

He looked a bit surprised and stared at me with a strange gaze. "That's a question I wasn't expecting. If you're a spy, either you're one of the best or one of the worst I've ever seen. I sense not a single ounce of false intent in your questions. You're genuinely curious?"

"Bruh, I never had false intent to begin with," I replied, rolling my eyes. "Couldn't you have 'detected' it earlier? And how do you even detect it? Some lie-detector built into this sex-dungeon chair or something?"

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I have my means, can't disclose them obviously. Secrets and all that. And no, it's not some lie-detector, as much as I would love to have one that works on everybody. Would make this work quite a bit less tedious." He shrugged with a hint of laughter. "Well, leaving that aside, let's focus back on you."

I raised an eyebrow. "So you now know I'm telling the truth when I say I have no idea who you people are or what happened here. So, how about a little quid pro quo? You answer my questions, and I'll answer yours. Fair's fair, right?"

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as he contemplated my proposal. After a moment, he nodded. "Alright, Mr. Hartley. I'll play your game. We are a... specialized task force, dealing with phenomena that fall outside the purview of ordinary law enforcement. As for what happened here, let's just say it was an incident of significant magnitude that required our immediate attention."

I whistled softly. "Specialized task force, huh? Government-sanctioned or just playing around in secret without Uncle Joe knowing?"

He coughed slightly, a hint of unease in his demeanor. "We... have the required permits and authority by governments worldwide."

Sussy.

He continued, "Now, my turn. How did you bypass our security measures?"

I sighed, running a hand through my hair—or at least imagined doing so, since I couldn't really do it with the cuffs on. "Look, I don't know anything about your mystical fields or whatever. I was just out for a bike ride, trying to figure out what happened to me last night. You know, I like those investigation shows, so I was just out doing a bit of it myself and—"

He raised his eyebrow, leaning forward with renewed interest. "Hold on, what happened last night?"

Ah, fuck it, can't hide this thing anyway.

"So you see, I was playing this game called Mark: Survival Devolved last night in a gaming cafe. In the game, you play as a dino named Mark who roams around a human city, with the aim of making slaves out of humans. He beats them up after dragging them into an alley, and then force-feeds them weird food until they become obedient out of sheer terror."

He stared at me with a deadpan expression, clearly wondering why the hell I was talking about the game. But he didn't lose focus. "Interesting game you speak of. So did something happen to you while playing this game? Any weird experience, anything out of the normal?"

"Oh, no, nothing happened. I just played it until late night, around 12, I guess. Paying the charges, I walked out of the cafe."

He maintained his stare, his mind clearly racing. "So what happened after?"

"I took out my bike from the parking lot and started driving. I was feeling all good; after all, who doesn't after a bit of forceful slavery, huh?" I nudged toward the exasperated suit guy.

He raised an eyebrow. "Ah, you are no fun. Okay, okay, let me continue. The next part is important. So suddenly, my bike's accelerator got stuck on full throttle. And then I panicked and pressed the brake, and guess what? I slowed down... for a second, before I heard a clunking noise under the bike. Lo and behold, I see something break and fall off the tires, and my brakes are suddenly all loose. Can you guess how pissy I got at that moment?"

I sighed, the memory of last night flooding back like a bad movie montage. "As my bike was accelerating, it was becoming harder and harder to handle it on that small road. So, I maneuvered it towards the highway. You know, more space, fewer pedestrians to mow down."

The suit guy perked up, his eyes narrowing with sudden interest. "Is the highway you're talking about the same one where we are right now?"

"Correcto, fifty points to Gryffindor," I quipped, trying to lighten the mood. The suit guy wasn't amused, but he was definitely interested now. "Anyway, I noticed there was a traffic jam up ahead, and not wanting to implicate anyone else in the accident, I turned my bike handle for a sudden turn."

He leaned forward, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "Quite noble of you. What happened then? How did you survive without a speck of injury on your body?"

I shrugged, the cuffs clinking against the chair. "I... don't know. Everything else was a blur thereafter before going dark. I just woke up this morning in my bed, feeling confused. Ran up here to check what the hell happened. Now that I mention it, I should go and check up on the gaming cafe too. Because seriously, it all feels like a hazy dream."

The suit guy's expression shifted, a mix of skepticism and intrigue playing across his face. He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with a screech that made me wince. "A hazy dream, you say. Interesting choice of words, Mr. Hartley."

He turned away, pacing the length of the room with his hands clasped behind his back. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of machinery outside the tent. I could almost see the gears turning in his head, trying to piece together the puzzle I'd presented him.

Finally, he stopped pacing and turned back to me, his eyes gleaming with a newfound intensity. "You mentioned a gaming cafe. Which one?"

"The one downtown, near the old theater. 'Epic Pixel.' You can't miss it—there's a giant neon sign of a joystick out front."

The suit guy nodded, pulling out his tablet and tapping something into it. "Epic Pixel. Got it. We'll look into it. But for now, let's focus on the here and now. We have discovered something on this incident site that might be of interest to you."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. "I'm always interested, but show me what you got."

He tapped something else on the tablet and then pointed it toward me. On the screen was a picture of a crumpled mass of metal and other debris, but it was something I could recognize from sixty-nine light-years away.

"My baby... Look how they massacred my baby," I mumbled, my eyes welling up with tears. It was like seeing an old friend beaten and broken, left to rust in the dirt.

"Yours, I presume?" he asked, his voice neutral, almost clinical.

"Yes," I choked out, trying to keep my composure. "I could recognize that metallic texture, that color pattern, the—ahem, anyway, yes, it's definitely mine."

He nodded, his eyes scanning me like I was some sort of puzzle he was trying to solve. "Interesting. So, you claim you have no memory of what happened after your bike accelerated out of control and you turned to avoid the traffic jam. Yet, here you are, unscathed, and your bike is... well, not so lucky."

I shrugged, the cuffs clinking against the chair. "Like I said, it's all a blur. One minute I'm trying not to become a human pancake, the next I'm waking up in my bed like nothing happened."

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "And you expect me to believe that?"

"Believe what you want, buddy. I'm just telling you what I know. Which, admittedly, isn't much."

He sighed, rubbing his temple like he had a migraine coming on. "Alright, Mr. Hartley. Let's say I believe you. That still leaves us with the question of how you bypassed our security measures. And how you managed to survive a crash that, by all accounts, should have left you in a similar state to your bike."

I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Maybe I'm just lucky. Or maybe I've got a guardian angel watching over me."

He snorted. "Luck and guardian angels have no place in my line of work, Mr. Hartley. There's always an explanation, always a reason."

"Well, when you find it, be sure to let me know. Because I'm just as curious as you are."

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "We'll see about that. In the meantime, I have some calls to make. Stay put."

I raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the cuffs securing me to the chair. "Not like I have much choice. But hey, while you're at it, could you bring back some coffee? I could use the caffeine. And maybe a tissue. You know, for my baby."

He gave me a look that was somewhere between amusement and exasperation before exiting the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. As the door flap closed behind him, I couldn't release the fart I was holding under my ass.

Peace and Destruction

It’s always there,

Hiding everywhere,

Injuring others,

Killing my brothers,

And still getting away with it,

It walks its way in,

Going through the corridor,

Trying to fill in all the gaps,

Absorbing everything within its sight,

Thinking it has all the might,

But within the gaps lies Peace,

Where flowers bloom,

And birds chirp,

And fish leap,

And there is no such thing as doom,

They look for one,

But get the other,

They think this is the way for growth,

Brother, think again!

What is life without both?

I started an instagram recently to promote my poetry. I would love you to check it out and give feedback! Here’s an example of my work:

I used to write so many Angry text messages Trying to get you to see how you were Such an ass But then would keep seeing you anyhow.

How could I convince you You weren’t treating me with respect When I must not have been Totally convinced myself Or at least thought it was bad enough To not keep going back.

I remember the last time I saw you I was crying so hard Screaming between each breath Trying to not text you And you texted me first Asking where I was I told you I was crying over you And it was a good cry I told you you should hear it I was screaming for all The people in pain

You told me scream all you want You all need it And agreed to meet up with me But I must understand It was just for sex And I told you You must understand it was the last time.

You used me for my body once again And decided to talk to me afterwards We sat in your car And talked about life It filled me with a false sense Of admiration As you described your Purpose tonight As to apologize to me As to thank me For letting you see the world In a different way.

As we drove home You asked me slyly If it was really the last time.

I admitted With inner plea That it had to be you To decide not to see me Because I was always going to Say yes to you

You asked me Why And I said because I love you.

And the words felt awkward in my mouth And you took them with offense Saying that word scares you

It’s funny isn’t it Because you told me you loved me The first day we met And made me fall in love

But the truth is It was always me who needed you And needed to tell you I can not see you.

You do not deserve this body You do not deserve the ways I make you see the world.

I am not a muse.

I am not yours.

I am not to be used.

I am

I am

I am

Now I will be.

I'm working on a story that is set in 1966 with flashbacks to the forties. It is a mystery and coming of age story, the back story done in flashbacks. I have twenty five chapters written (30,000 words), most in rough draft. My concern is that the first chapter does not have enough to pique interest and grab a reader. I would appreciate any thoughts.

CHAPTER 1

Burton 1B

Thursday evening 5:30, Aug 11, 1966.

Liz Hall turned her head at the sound of a car crunching through the gravel. She glanced at her watch to check the time, pushed the basket of tomatoes aside and got up from her knees.

Brushing her blonde hair away from her eyes, she watched the car roll up to the house. Liz recognized the man who emerged from behind the wheel, a brown briefcase clutched in his hand. The new corporal, who had arrived in the town detachment a few weeks earlier. She saw him look up at the peeling, white house, and start for the door.

“Can I help you?” she called. He spun, startled and watched Liz approach.

“Sorry, I didn't see you,” he said. He seemed confused. “Don't I know you?”

“I work at city hall,” Liz said. “You've probably seen me there.”

“That would be it,” he said putting out his hand. “I'm still getting used to the town and the faces. Doug Wilson.”

“Liz Hall,” Liz said, taking the proffered one, completing the introduction. “How can I help you,” she repeated,

“I'm looking for Clara Hall,” the cop said.

“That's my mother,” Liz said, a puzzled look on her face. “She's in the other house.” She pointed at the bright yellow building that stood a short distance away. At that moment the door of the yellow house opened and a white haired woman stepped out, her hand up to shield her eyes as she took in the scene. “That's her. What did she do?”

“Nothing that I'm aware of,” Wilson said with a smile. “I just have a few questions about an old investigation that she might be able to help me with.”

“Hold on while I get my tomatoes and I'll introduce you,” she said over her shoulder, as she went back into the garden and lifted her basket.

“Can I help you with that?” Wilson asked as she came back.

“I have it, it's not heavy. I'm getting very curious now,” she added as she led the way to the yellow house.

“Mom, this is corporal Wilson,” Liz said as she set her basket down on the porch. “He says he has some questions for you.”

Clara Hall nodded without expression. “Well you better come on in then. It sounds like this may take a cup of coffee to get through,” she said, turning and entering the house.

Wilson took off his hat and took an indicated seat at the kitchen table. Liz sat at the opposite side and stared at him. He was a trim man of average height. His uniform fit him well. The uniform shirt had been tailored, tapered to get rid of the billowing at the waist. She had noticed the shine on his boots and the highly polished brass belt buckle. Everything about him was in sharp contrast to most of the R.C.M.P. members at the Burton detachment. She thought that while he was vain about his appearance, he would be equally fastidious about his work and habits. He was a good-looking man with short, neatly trimmed hair. He had hazel eyes that focused on yours when he spoke to you. She watched him carefully as he explored the room with those eyes. Liz was sure he missed nothing.

“So, what are these questions?” Clara Hall asked from the stove where she was pouring scoops of coffee into Percolator.

“It's about your husband, Clyde Hall”, Wilson said.

Clara spun around from the stove, coffee grains spilling on the tile floor. “He's turned up?” She cried in disbelief. “A bad penny turned up after umpteen years.”

Liz took everything in, in a flash. Her mother's reaction, and Wilson's close examination of her mother and her reaction to his words. A chill ran up her spine.

There was a pause before Wilson spoke again. “No, I'm afraid not. It's just that it is still an open file. We often take another look at old files. A-fresh-pair-of-eyes, sort of thing.”

Liz gave a disbelieving snort. “After twenty years, on a missing person's case? I don't think so. This is more of aunt Bernice's doing, mom.”

“Aunt Bernice?” Wilson seemed honestly confused.

“Bernice Saretski,” Liz said disdainfully. “Dad's sister. She hounded us for years after he ran off and left us.”

“Oh, yes. There were a number of letters from her in the file, Nothing recent though and I have not spoken to her.”

“Really?”, Liz said doubtfully. “Well I can't believe this is suddenly important. It didn't seem to be that important twenty years ago when he was reported missing.”

Clara seemed to have regained her composure. She left the pot on the stove and took a seat at the table. “So what are the questions?” she asked resignedly.

Wilson opened the brown briefcase and pulled out a file. “Perhaps you could go back over the events of that day. The last time you saw him. You were both here, right.”

“Twenty years ago,” Liz laughed. “I'm sure our memory was better twenty years ago.”

“Nineteen years actually,” Wilson said, undeterred. “You would have been what, thirteen at the time?”

“I suppose,” Liz said.

“She was,” Clara said. “And Clinton was 12. My memory of that day is quite clear, thank you. I didn't see Clyde that afternoon. I heard the wagon come into the yard. I was in the kitchen in the old house.” She pointed at it through the window over the table. “I was preparing dinner. The Children came in and told me their father had jumped off the wagon, left it for Clinton to put the horses away like he always did, walked back down to the highway, got in a strange car and took off, going away from town.” She paused to take a breath. “Good riddance.”

“I's OK, Mom,” Liz said, placing a hand over her mothers clenched ones on the table. “My father was a drunk, Corporal, a violent one. It was a strain on us financially when he took off, but in many ways our life improved.”

Wilson nodded understandingly. “So, both you and your brother...” he looked down at his file, “Clint, saw him leave in the car”.

“That's right.”

“Did he say anything to you or your brother before he walked down to the highway?” he asked Liz.

Liz shook her head, “No.”

“Was the car there when he started to walk down the drive, or did it pull up later?”

“I didn't see the car until dad started to walk away, it was already parked there then, waiting,” Liz said.

“Where is Clint now?” Wilson asked.

“He's in Alberta. He works in the oil-patch,” Liz said. A fleeting change in Wilson's expression told Liz that he had checked on her brother, and knew he was currently in jail in Fort Saskatchewan. She looked at her mother and back at Wilson with a small shake of her head, signalling that her mother did not know this. Wilson gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

“You didn't phone the office until six days later to report him missing”, Wilson said, “was he in the habit of going off like that?”

“Phone”, Clara said with a snort. “There was no phone back then. I think the only phone this side of the tracks was Art Shiminoski's. He would let people use it in an emergency, but I didn't think this was an emergency. No, I walked to the police station, Mr. Wilson. Back then it was in the post office, on the third floor, right under the clock. I talked to the sergeant. He had another cop take the report. That's probably the one you have there. No one ever got back to us”.

Wilson took a quick look down at the file then looked at Liz. “So, no one ever interviewed you. Took a statement?” Liz met his eyes and shook her head. He turned to Clara.“Then this description of the car was just what your children told you?”

“That's right,” Clara said. “The police couldn't have been less interested. Clinton and Elizabeth didn't know much about cars. They just said it looked like the one Mr. Lackland drove.”

Wilson looked down again at the few brief pages in the old complaint sheet and shook his head. “There's no mention of that here. Do you know if anyone talked to this Mr. Lackland.”

“I have no idea”, Clara said. “You'd have to ask them.”

“Lackland was the minister at the United Church.” Liz volunteered. “He was probably eighty at the time. He died not long after, if I remember rightly. They probably wrote him off as unlikely to be involved with my father in any way.”

The coffee pot had been perking for some time. Liz got up and brought two cups to the table, putting one in front of her mother and giving one to Wilson. Wilson declined cream and sugar.

“So,” Clara said, “to answer your question, no, he wasn't in the habit of running off. He had never done it before”, Clara said. “The only reason we reported it in the first place was to let people know. Some people in town depended on him, why I don't know. He was a very undependable man. Well, that's unfair,” she said, gazing off into the distance. “I just wanted people to know he was gone. I expected him to return home anytime, although, to be honest, I think I was hoping he wouldn't. Still, he has family in the area. If he didn't return for us, I would have expected him to come back for them.”

She took her gaze from the kitchen wall and looked at Wilson. “It was the war,” she said. “He came back changed. He had a serious head injury, but I think it was what he went through over there that changed him, not the injury so much. Clyde was a fine, loving man when I married him. He doted on the children. But, like I said, he came back changed, a violent man, and then a drunk. The smallest thing would set him off. Clinton took most of his abuse. The boy could do nothing right. It changed Clinton, the beatings. He started getting in trouble, not so much then, but later, after his father was gone. The damage had already been done,” she added sadly.

Liz nodded and said, “Clint took most of Dad's abuse, but it was he who stepped in to fill his shoes. He managed to get delivery jobs on the week-end with the team. We got more chickens and Clint sold eggs in town. He was twelve years old,” she added, her eyes shining with pride.

“There was another boy here that day,” Wilson said after a long pause, looking down at the file.

Liz and Clara looked at each other, puzzled. “I don't think so,” Liz said.

Clara shook her head. “We never had much in the way of company here. Clyde wouldn't tolerate it.”

Liz nodded, “The only one with the courage to show up some times, when dad was away, was Alan.”

“Alan?” Wilson looked from one to the other questioningly.

“Alan King”, Liz said, “Clint's friend.”

Clara gave a small chuckle. “More your friend, I suspect,” she said, looking at her daughter.

“That was later, after dad was gone,” Liz corrected her mother.

“I don't think Clinton and Alan would have become such good friends if Alan hadn't been coming around mooning over you,” Clara said.

Liz gave a small smile. “Perhaps, but I don't recall him being around that day. He certainly wasn't around when dad came home. I remember telling him about dad's disappearance a few days later.”

There were few other questions and Wilson thanked them for their time. On the porch he looked around the yard. “I don't see a well.” he said. “Are you on city water?”

Liz's heart skipped a beat. “We are now,” her mother said, with a note of pride. “Clinton had town water brought to the old house six years ago and put in indoor plumbing. Two years ago he built this new house for me.”

“How was your well water before?” Wilson asked.

“It took some getting used to,” Clara laughed. “Even before Clyde left for the war, visitors soon learned to decline a second cup of coffee.”

“We were all used to it,” Liz said, “it wasn't that bad.”

“Ha!” Clara scoffed. “It tasted like you were sucking on pennies and rusty nails.”

Wilson laughed. “Where was the well?” he asked, offhandedly.

“Under the house,” Clara said. “We had a well in the yard, but back in forty-seven, Clyde and his brother dug a well right under the house. It's still there. Clint had it capped after he had the town water brought in.”

Wilson looked puzzled. “How did you water the animals?” he asked.

“The old well was still in the yard,” Clara said. “I told Clyde we didn't need a new well, but he wanted to put a pump right in my kitchen, so I wouldn't have to go out to the well. That was when his head was still good, before the war.”

“I remember when they were digging that well under the house,” Liz chimed in. “They were bringing up the dirt in buckets, through the trap door in the kitchen floor.”

“And half of it ended up on the floor,” Clara said shaking her head. “You and Clinton managed to track it through the rest of the house.” She smiled at her daughter.

“Those were happy times,” Liz said wistfully.

“Yes”, Clara nodded, leaning over and putting her arm around her daughter's shoulders. “Still, I don't think that well was worth the effort, but Clyde was so proud of it when it was finished. He and Art hauled a wagon load of planks down there to shore it up. It was sort of sad when Clinton had town water brought in and took that old pump out.”

“I don't see the old well,” Wilson said, looking around the yard.

“There.” Clara pointed at the vegetable garden. “After it was filled in, Clinton put the septic field over it. He said the vegetable garden would be OK there, if we didn't plant anything with deep roots.”

Wilson looked around the yard, taking it all in. The weathered barn with half of it's loft-door hanging open on one hinge. The hen house with half a dozen chickens scratching in the yard. All of it reminiscent of a different time, a happier time. He shook his head, “Well, again, thank you for your time.” They shook hands.

“I'll walk you to your car”, Liz said, stepping off the porch with him. Half-way back to the car she turned to him. “What's this really all about?” she asked.

Wilson looked confused for a second. “Just what I said. Sometimes we go back through old files to see if there have been any new leads or anything.”

“I might buy that if this had been a spectacular, unsolved murder case, but not the twenty-year-old disappearance of a drunk and trouble maker.”

As Wilson opened the door of his car Liz said, “I'll tell you this. You won't find my father sleeping under a bridge someplace in Vancouver. With his violent nature he would have been in prison years ago. The only reason he didn't end up there, is because he's dead.”

Wilson nodded. “Honestly, I'm inclined to agree with you.”

Liz watched the car turn onto the highway and went back to the house. She picked up the basket of tomatoes and went inside.

Her mother was at the table, a fresh cup of coffee in front of her.

“I'm worried, Mom,” Liz said, putting the tomatoes on the counter. “What did you make of all that?”

“Nothing to be worried about,” her mother said, waving a dismissive hand, “but he's a sharp one that,” she added, nodding to Wilson's empty chair. “He gets an idea, and he'll worry it like a dog on a bone. Somebody must have said something to get him going.”

“You seemed pretty cool about it all,” Liz said.

“I had a good idea what it was about. I've been waiting for that car to roll into the yard for nineteen years.” She looked out into the fading light in thought. “Has anything interesting been going on in town lately?” she asked.

Liz shrugged, “Just the Terry Patton thing. It looks like the cop he shot will be fine. He's at home now. Terry is still in the cells at the detachment. They've set a preliminary hearing for November.”

Clara shook her head and sighed. “I feel I should go over and talk to Will and Mary, or at least phone, but I don't know what to say. Terry has been a problem since the day he was born.”

Liz nodded, but offered no suggestion.“Those questions about the well shook me. They made no sense in context and were too casual.”

“You're right,” her mother said. “Time will tell what's going on here, not to worry,” she paused and looked at her daughter. “What was that thing between you and him when Clinton's name came up?”

Liz gave a resigned sigh. Wilson wasn't the only one in the room who didn't miss anything. “Clint's in jail. He got two months for some bar fight. Wilson was fishing, when he brought up Clint. I figured he already knew he was in jail. I didn't want him to mention it.”

Clara nodded sadly and said, “There's still a half a pot of coffee on the stove, made with fine tasting city water.” She took another sip from her cup to emphasize the point.

“It would keep me awake all night,” Liz said. “I think I'll read until bedtime.” It wasn't the coffee that kept her tossing and turning all night.

A letter ought to be a mundane thing at worst, and an exciting thing at best; it should never be a death sentence.

The letter is on the kitchen table in front of me, unopened months after having received it.

I’ve seen letters like this before. They found my siblings, my neighbors, some childhood friends. I know what the letter means without even opening it. The four words written in blue ink on the front are a good enough indication: Lotus Court Official Summons.

I numb the sting of those four words with another long pull of ale—it’s my fifth stein of the night, and the buzz isn’t doing much. I’ve been trying to dull the ache of those words for the past three months and I haven’t been very successful.

This is probably my last night at this table, made of rich mahogany and large enough to fit a family of eight. It’s hosted dinners, holidays, shouting matches, tears... It’s a fine piece, crafted by my grandfather, possibly the finest ever made by Allister hands. Before the letter arrived, I hoped I would one day make something even greater.

Footsteps pad down wooden stairs, and for a brief moment, I’m reminded that this may well be my last night within these walls.

“Rowan?” a voice whispers from the candlelit dark.

“Yeah?”

Thalia steps through the threshold into the kitchen. She’s in that same black dress I took off her hours ago, and it does very little to conceal her figure. Out of respect, I keep my eyes up.

“You’re still awake?”

“Yup.”

She slips into the seat across from me, looking vulnerable with her scrubbed hands, freshly washed hair, and bloodshot eyes. I know that look, I’ve seen it before. She's been crying.

“I know you can’t sleep,” she says and nods to the ale. “That certainly won’t help.”

I shrug and take another swig. “Doesn’t hurt either.”

“You should get some rest. You and your father have a long ride ahead of you tomorrow.”

“I think I’m still debating whether I should try and run.”

Thalia lets out a soft chuckle, a sound that makes the hole in my chest just a bit deeper.

“You can’t run, Rowan. Lotus Court and their Outriders…they always find the runners. Besides, where will you run to? No place to hide in High-Country…and if you try and leave the mountains—well, then you might as well just face the music tomorrow.”

“Could still be worth trying.”

Her smile fades, and her eyes threaten to well up with tears. Somehow she holds them back.

“I can’t do it, not after what happened to my siblings. And I can’t lose you…”

“I know, but the alternative is I lose you anyway. At least this way we can maybe both find happiness again one day.”

Her voice cracks at the end of her sentence, and it likely takes her a considerable amount of willpower to keep from bursting into tears right then and there. We’ve spent months preparing for this day, and every moment since the letter arrived, we’ve put off this exact conversation, fearful of what it might mean.

I want to get up from the table, embrace her, kiss her, tell her how much I love her, but there’s no use. We’ve done that for the past six months, and it didn’t change anything. No matter what, I’m going to Radiant Peak and being paired off—Court’s orders.

“I don’t think I can fall in love again, not like this.”

She smiles. “You will, and so will I. We’re young, Rowan, so young with so much life to live. Bonding is bigger than us; the Courts only pick the strongest pairs. If you find someone at the ceremony tomorrow, know that they are a greater match than I could ever be.”

I chuckle now. “You don’t really believe that.”

She shrugs. “What I’m saying is that we have to believe it. That’s just the way things go—because there isn’t anything we can do to stop it.”

A silence settles between us, leaving a gulf ten miles wide.

“So this is it? Tomorrow is it…?” I finally say.

“It is.”

“I so badly wanted to marry you.”

She nods. “I know, but that isn’t up to us. You have a duty to uphold.”

“To High Country?”

“No, to your family. If there’s one thing the Court does well, it’s treat their successful champions. If you do this and succeed—like really succeed—you won’t ever have to want for anything ever again.”

“That’s not true.”

She sighs and gets up from her seat. “I’m leaving, Rowan. If not for you, then for me.” She shakes her head. “I can’t go with you tomorrow. It will only make things harder for us.”

I don’t say anything, I just nod. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. When she offered to spend the night with me, something told me that it would be our last shared moment. And what a moment it was. Out behind the family estate, under a cover of pines and stars—an evening I’ll never forget.

Three months ago, I was prepared for a lifetime of moments like those. But the summons letter on the table in front of me has stopped everything.

“Goodnight, Rowan,” she says. “I hope good Karmas find you tomorrow.”

With that, she gets up, grabs her coat off the back of the living room sofa, and exits through the front door.

I have the urge to run after her, to chase her down in the dark and kiss her one last time, but we’ve done that too.  The passion and hope in her eyes has been smothered.

We both know what that letter means—she’s lost people to it too.

So, alone in the kitchen of my childhood home, I swallow three more pints of ale from the jugs in the pantry and keep a keen eye on the grandfather clock a few feet away in the living room.

My mind spirals as it has done for the past three months. Why? Why me? It’s not like I’m particularly fit, or smart. My family has certainly already served the court plenty—haven’t they had enough Allister?

I’ve always wondered why the Bonding even happened, and the answer has always been the same—because it ensures the safety and future of High Country. When I was younger I used to question it more, every child in High Country does, but between the teachers, Outriders, and town pastors you learn that it’s safer and easier not to wonder. Some even go so far as to believe what they’re saying without question. 

The hours creep by, midnight turning to two, then four. The only company I have is the soft groan and creak of the house as a summer storm rages across Gregor Peak. There’s something comforting about the wind's howl and the steady patter of rain.

Once upon a time, the house at that hour would’ve been filled with the chatter and footsteps of my older siblings. Those sounds are long gone now.

Somehow, sleep finds me and lands me face down on the kitchen table in a shallow puddle of my own drool.

In my dreams, I’m at that table again, and I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

I am shaken awake hours later by the whistle of a tea kettle.

I jolt up and find my father in the kitchen, pouring two cups of tea. He’s a broad man, with the same ruddy complexion and stout build as all men in the Allister family. My sisters are in the kitchen too, dressed in their school uniforms—pleated skirts and black collared blouses each stitched with a little pink Lotus on the chest. I wore that same uniform once, as did my older siblings.

If there’s one rule in the Allister household, it’s that nothing goes to waste.

My sisters poke around bowls of oatmeal as they each bury their noses into thick textbooks. If only diligent study guaranteed your name would be skipped in the Summons ceremony.

“I heard Thalia leave last night,” my father says as he hands me a cup of tea. “She isn’t coming?”

“No.”

My father nods. “Good, you shouldn’t put her through that.”

“What do you mean?”

My father jabs a finger at the letter on the kitchen table.

“Everyone knows what this letter means. Thalia ain’t dumb, and neither are you—so stop acting like it.”

There’s a sadness in his eyes, and it leaves a stark disconnect from the gruffness of his tone. My sisters don’t look up from their textbooks.

In the past, they would have snickered at me facing one of my father’s tirades. Now they avoid my eyes, and I’m certain that letter is the reason.

“You can’t expect me to just go along with this, not after everything that’s happened.”

My father doesn’t respond right away. He just turns back to the stove where he cracks two eggs into a hot skillet.

I suddenly feel incredibly foolish for speaking back to my father like that.

He, more than anyone, knows the suffering that can come from a simple letter from the Lotus Court. Without me, my mother, and my older siblings, it’ll just be him and my little sisters in that big house, surrounded by so much loss. And there is absolutely nothing any of us can do about it.

Breakfast is served, and we eat it in a hurry. The grandfather clock strikes seven, and it’s time for my sisters to walk to where the school wagon picks them up.

They make their quiet, tearful goodbyes. They know what comes next, having seen it three times before. After long hugs and whispered promises to return, they step out the front door. A big part of me knows that this will be our last moment together. I try very hard not to think on the futures I’ll be missing out on. 

My father and I step out after them and are greeted by a dewy morning in the forest.

The morning is beautiful. The summer sun glints off every damp surface, and the tops of towering pines sway in the warm breeze. Despite the mud, the forest seems to have weathered the storm with little damage.

We find our horses in the stable. There are only two in the family now—and they’re sisters, a pair of senior auburn appaloosas.

They huff and snort at us as we saddle them up and prepare them for riding.

“They’re eager,” my father says. “I think they know they’re going on a long ride.”

“I wish I was eager too,” I say with a chuckle.

My father smirks—the most I've seen him smile in weeks.

“You know, there is a chance that you will make it, right?”

I shrug. “I suppose.”

“You’re strong, Mara wasn’t strong. You’re smart—” he chuckles. “I love Lucian and Ash, but neither of them were very bright.”

I laugh with him. “Karmas won’t like to hear you speak ill of the dead.”

“I’m just looking at it honest-like. They’re my children; I knew them better than anyone else—if anyone can speak ill of them, it’s me.”

My father lets out a stuttering sigh, and that pain returns to his eyes.

“I know you too, Rowan. I’m hopeful you’ll make it.”

I nod, swallowing back the tears that well at the corners of my eyes.

“Me too.”

Saddles secure, we hop on and trot away from the family manor.

I suddenly find new admiration for the worn-out farmhouse: its wrap-around porch, the leaning willow in the front yard, the dip in the slatted roofing. It’s no luxurious home, but it’s been mine for all of my life.

We leave the manor proper and pass through the remaining acres of Allister land. It’s a sprawling property, with rows of tilled farmland ready for a planting of beets, broccoli, and cucumber.

The hired help is out there working the land, repairing whatever was disrupted the night before.

They wave at us from under wide-brimmed hats as we pass by. Each of them has immigrated from the Valley and has been thoroughly checked and cleared by local authorities. While they may be outsiders, they’re safe outsiders. To me, they look like distant cousins.

We reach a pair of wrought iron gates that open onto a gravel highway winding through dense pine forest. Up the road, we spot the horse-drawn wagon filled with children heading to Gregor Peak’s schoolhouse. I imagine my sisters are onboard, trying to hide their tears.

“I know what you’re thinking,” my father says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re wondering if you’ll see them again.”

I don’t know how to respond. I just keep my eyes on the gravel road.

“Part of making sure you make it back, is believing you’ll make it back. Karmas don’t listen to fear or doubt.”

“I know.”

My father clears his throat and gazes down the long gravel road leading north, away from Gregor Peak. “Come, son, we have a lot of riding to do before we reach Radiant Peak.”

hi everyone. I have had some conflicting comments about my prologue. i wanna see if you all have the same feedback or different feedback :) thank you in advance!

The forest hums with excitement as the wind brings the deep, sour scent of blood and Feral venom to him. Enigma picks up his once leisurely pace, his heart racing. The Ferals killed someone, not a creature but someone. That's the only time the land around the Manor buzzes like this.

Loud voices reach his ears. They’re closer than what his fathers maps said. He holds his breath, stopping dead in his tracks terrified they’ll hear him. His father always warned him about this clan. They are ruthless and territorial. They kill without remorse and don't care about status outside of their own familial clans. He has always listened, made sure to never get close to the mark his father left on his maps, but he never thought they were so close to the Shimmer Deer trail.

Movement catches his eye. Not the entire Feral clan but a large hunting party. Never before has he come face to face with them, and it's as if terror sweeps down his spine when his gaze locks onto the massive, savage brand emblazoned across the chest of their leader. Larger than the rest. According to the books the chief’s have the biggest brand in the clans. Panic courses through his veins, constricting his chest, rendering his fingers numb and setting the top of his head ablaze with an overwhelming tingling. 

Despite his fear, he dares not tear his eyes away from their menacing figures. But even as he maintains his unwavering gaze, ensuring none of them notice him, he stumbles upon harrowing evidence of a recent and violent struggle. 

Crimson fingerprints claw desperately through the earth, while tattered remnants of a vivid turquoise fabric flutter ominously in the breeze, and shattered blades gleam ominously in the dim light, all converging on a solitary, gnarled oak tree.

Even the rustling of the leaves stop as his eyes meet a young Feral woman, her brand sprawling in swirls and dots across her chest. 

Quiet. 

Tied to the tree with a knot that would only tighten if she fights. 

Her strawberry blond hair cascades in wild, untamed curls, forming a fiery halo that frames her face. A mesmerizing, almost otherworldly, mask of vibrant turquoise paint stretches across her eyes, resembling a fierce warrior's battle markings, splattered with explosive bursts of fiery copper. The bright turquoise dress she wears clings to her torso like a second skin, soaked in blood, different colored venoms, and torn to ribbons revealing gruesome stab wounds. Hacking, sawing. They did everything aside from stab her in the heart or the head. That would have been an easy death.

She's practically a child, barely older than fifteen, perhaps even younger. What could she have done to get this sort of treatment?

Enigma inches closer to her, his hands trembling, half of his mind focused on the sounds of the Ferals behind him, talking, laughing, hidden just behind the bushes around the clearing. Is she dead? She has to be with the amount of broken blades littering the ground around her. The urge to kneel drops him to his knee, his brand-new leather boots creaking ominously as he descends. His eyes grow wide, the sound seeming louder than ever. 

The faintest gasp of air from the young Feral sends a lightning bolt coursing through his veins, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

She's alive. Barely.

He searches the ground, but unsure of which blade contained venom or not he pulls a knife from a hidden holster in his boot. 

Ferals are dangerous. 

Especially ones with big brands like hers. 

They're dangerous. 

I can’t leave her…

The irresistible urge to save her surges within him, eclipsing his very fear. He is catapulted to ten years before. How the town below the hill his family lived on left him to die in the city center. No one offered to help. No one cast a second glance in his direction as his blood drenched his clothes like this young Ferals soaks hers.

He tries sliding the knife under the rope around her neck. Her hand strikes like a snake seizing his wrist with a vice-like grip, the armor on her fingertips puncturing his flesh with an agonizing intensity. His breaths tremble as he dares to lift his gaze, locking onto her eyes, an inky, ominous blue.

“I’m trying to help you,” he whispers.

She shakes her head trying to pull his hand away. “Lig dom bás...” she whimpers.

Bás… die…that one Feral that was hung in Hawthorne said the same word…

He cuts the rope, accidentally nicking her skin. “That, I will not do.”

Hi all, I like to write out scenes I see on the street. They're short, like the one below. Before I start posting some of them I'd love to get some feedback. I'm not sure this is even something that people would enjoy reading. Any tips would be class! TIA.

Both Hands

Jesus, I thought he was about to stack it just then.

With both hands gripping the rail, he hoists himself up and shuffles past the driver.

Watching his best-foot step forward, he moves down the aisle settling on my right

His suit jacket brushes my shoulder and our eyes lock briefly.

Both hands strain hard along the pole as the bus pulls past the lights.

I’d have offered my seat, but he’s already spoilt for choice.

The Stranger Of Time

When I look in the mirror, I no longer recognize the reflection staring back at me. This woman is older than I am. The shape of her mouth does not show me joy but criticism. She has hard creases on her forehead and between her eyes. Her once enviable cheekbones have been buried beneath the weight of depression. This woman’s ocean-blue eyes have darkened with time. She traded her porcelain skin for broken blood vessels and dry spots. Her curly auburn hair has gone limp and wiry where the white came in.

The mirror’s reflection shows a body that is not my own. Her posture is burdened, shown in the slump of her shoulders. Her shape has transformed from hard hourglass to soft and pillowy. Her arms are freckled with age. Her hands are lined from use. This woman’s breasts sag as the stretch marks pucker around her nipples. Her previously round belly button has collapsed into itself. Her hip bones have long since been covered with layers of indulgence. Her thighs dimple and her knees fold.

She is unrecognizable from the outside, permanently altered. What caused the woman staring back at me to become a stranger? Was I too preoccupied with surviving to notice her change? I didn't see her shoulders begin to sag. I missed her body plumping. When did her hands become wrinkled with time? On what day did her face form its first permanent scar of emotion? The reflection in the mirror shows every laugh and furrowed brow. If I know how this woman came to be, is she a stranger?

Hi all, I'm a new writer and am looking brutal, but respectful, feedback on my writing. Im currently writing two series. i spend a few hours most days writing stuff and am looking help on making my writing better.

Alden hovered just outside his father’s quarters, a small, rough cabin set against the sprawling wilds of Lord Briarwood’s estate. The night was still, quiet but not the silence of nothing. The silence of expectation as if everything was alive and listening and waiting for something. Alden felt the tingling under his skin, a sensation that had been growing stronger as his seventeenth birthday approached, as if the very air was calling to him.

Inside, Kell Thorne was fastening the last of his armor, the familiar pieces worn from years of duty. The room was modest, with only the essentials: a cot, a single lantern casting a warm glow, and a few keepsakes Alden knew his father held onto with fierce loyalty. The only signs of his father’s past and rank were the weapons mounted on the wall—his favored blade, a sturdy spear, and a dagger marked with runes so faint that Alden sometimes wondered if he only imagined them. Kell’s life had been dedicated to protecting Lord Briarwood’s land and his people, and the cabin’s starkness reflected his simple, unyielding purpose.

Kell turned, catching Alden’s hesitant figure in the doorway. He raised an eyebrow, giving a soft chuckle. “You’ll wear a hole in the ground if you keep standing there. Come in.”

Alden stepped inside, feeling that same restless energy fluttering in his chest. He wanted to ask so many things, but he settled on the question that had been pressing at him most. “Da… tomorrow. I know it means something. I feel like something’s… different. Like it’s pulling at me.”

Kell’s expression softened, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. “Aye, lad. Seventeen’s not just another year. It’s the year people start to see you for what you might become, not just what you are now. And if you have a touch of the Flow, even just a speck…” He hesitated, as if weighing his next words. “Well, they’ll be watching.”

The Flow. Alden had heard the word his entire life, though he knew few truly understood it. An invisible river of magic, woven through all things, flowing unseen but always present. Most people moved through life unaware of it. But some could feel it, a few even more than feel it. And Alden… he had always felt it just at the edges of his mind, just beyond his grasp.

“And Lord Briarwood?” Alden asked, his voice barely a whisper. “He’s been looking at me differently lately. Like… like he’s waiting for something.”

Kell nodded, his face darkening. “He sees something in you. And that’s why I need you to be careful, Alden. Lords don’t watch without reason. They see the Flow in people like us, and to them, it’s not just magic—it’s an opportunity.”

Alden’s throat tightened. “But… isn’t it a good thing? Isn’t it something I should try to understand? I feel it, Da, more than I can put into words. It’s like… it’s like it’s calling to me.”

Kell looked at him carefully, the candlelight casting shadows across his weathered face. “Yes, it’s calling, lad. The Flow has a way of doing that, but remember—it’s not just something you reach for. It’s something you have to earn.” He paused, his gaze distant. “It’s powerful, but not everything about power is good. People think magic can be controlled, bent to their will. But the Flow… it’s older than any of us, stronger than any blade or shield. It shapes you as much as you shape it.”

Alden shifted, frustration building inside him. “But if I don’t try, then what? Am I just supposed to be another guard? Spend my life like—” He stopped himself, catching the hurt flicker in his father’s eyes.

Kell’s face softened, but his tone remained steady. “There’s honor in a life lived with purpose, Alden. I chose this life, chose to protect what matters. And I’d choose it again.” He hesitated, something unspoken hovering at the edge of his words. “Your path doesn’t have to be mine, but know this: power can make you powerful, but only character makes you strong.”

Alden felt a pang of guilt and looked down, his hands clenching. “Da… you said she… my mother… she had a connection to it, didn’t she?” He looked up, searching his father’s face. “I don’t remember her, not really. But… did she feel it like I do?”

A shadow crossed Kell’s face, and he looked away, his expression unreadable. “Aye, she felt it. Some people… some people have a way of touching it that’s rare. It’s not something we need to talk about tonight.” His voice was gentle but firm, an unspoken warning not to press further.

Alden felt a hollow ache in his chest, but he forced himself to nod. “Did she want me to feel it too?”

Kell’s gaze softened, his eyes taking on a distant, almost sorrowful look. “She wanted you to be yourself. To choose your own path, without others deciding for you what you were meant to be.” His hand gripped Alden’s shoulder, strong and steady. “That’s why I’ve taught you all I know. So that if—when—you find your own way with the Flow, you’ll do it wisely. With respect.”

Alden nodded, though the questions in his mind only seemed to grow. He could feel the Flow, feel it humming all around him, stronger than ever. It was calling to him, filling the night air with a sense of promise and potential that made his heart pound. But his father’s words, the warning in them, echoed in his mind like a whisper.

“Heed these words well,” Kell said, his tone low . “The Flow isn’t just something you wield. It’s something you learn to live with, something you honor. It’s not a tool or a weapon, it’s… it’s a gift. And sometimes, gifts take more than they give. So don’t be so quick to reach for it, lad. Make sure you know who you are first.”

They both stood in silence the weight of Kell’s words settling over them. Then Alden felt his father’s hand give his shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze. “Tomorrow, the world will look different, and there will be choices that look mighty tempting. Just remember who you are. And know that whatever you choose, you don’t walk that road alone.”

Alden felt the emotion swell in his chest raw and unsteady, but he forced himself to nod. As he stepped out into the night, he thought he felt the pull of the Flow around him, a pulsing rhythm that called to something deep within. The stars above seemed brighter, the air thicker with magic than it had ever been. Tomorrow, he would be seventeen. And though he didn’t yet know what it would mean, he could feel that the world was waiting for him, a vast and uncharted current ready to sweep him along its hidden paths.

I wrote the following scene for a writing class. I received feedback from one class that it is clear and works as a scene structurally. Another writing class group said it is unclear, confusing, and they did not understand who were the characters/what was the point and other details like whether the window was on the 1th floor or a ground floor level. I do think the "legalese" might be too much, but again, one group said it worked well. I am looking for a third opinion:

Lady Justice’s metallic right eye peaked out from the drooping blindfold.

Easy for you to judge, I turned the figurine to face the corner of my desk like a naughty toddler. You never had to come up with 480 billable hours each quarter.

This letter is an attempt to amicably resolve the dispute specified herein prior to initiation of litigation in which damages, cost, and attorney’s fees will be sought. More like a shakedown. 

I stretched my gnarled fingers over the keyboard. My lumbar spine cried out and I feared I had been hunched for so long that I would never be able to straighten again. Without needing to check the window behind me, I knew I had missed the deadline to send out Peter’s list of demand letters. Peter had prowled the associate cubicles looking for brave volunteers. In the end, I succumbed. 

The senior attorneys left the office six on the dot, the paralegals at seven, and my fellow first-years slinked away only seconds after when the coast was clear to catch the vestiges of happy hour. I resigned myself to a late night at the office, but if I finished by eight, I would still have time to watch our show. I texted my mom to let my grandfather know to watch it without me. Again. 

I’m sorry, Abuelo.  It was going to be another long night in a week of long nights.

I settled in to write my next letter when I heard a tapping at the window. At first, it was steady and light enough to be mistaken for a bird peeking in, but then it changed tempo—more like the school children at Miami Seaquarium impatiently rapping against a tank for the groupers’ attention.

 My muscles tightened like they had at the sound of every call from a random number, every stranger looking for Mariana Garcia. I breathed in, then carefully lifted the corner slat of the flimsy, plastic Venetian blind. It was a tall man with a tangle of dark hair and a grin. The darkness of his suit swallowed the light, and the shadows pooled at his feet appeared to shift on their own accord once you knew to look. A sinking desperation returned to the pit of my stomach. I was supposed to have ten years before I would have to worry about seeing his face again.

Adriel motioned for me to open the window, and I obeyed in a stupor.

 “I said to myself, who could I count on being in the office on a Friday, memo-writing the night away?”  Adriel leaned his arms over the windowsill. “My favorite lawyer.”

  “I-I . . . Judge Judy stepped out, but I’ll let her know you stopped by.” I never thought I could feel empathy for mosquitos stuck in sticky pads.

 “Stop being so humble. I came all the way from 47th street to see you.” He smiled. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

 “I would, it’s just . . . I’m not allowed to let non-Decker employees in the office after hours. It’s a liability, you know.”

 “What about clients? I’m in the market for a trustworthy lawyer like yourself.”

  I hesitated. “We’re fresh out of those today.”

 “How about you let me in, and I’ll decide.” He lowered his head to my eye line. “Besides, I come bearing gifts.”

 Adriel was persistent. My deflections did not seem to dissuade him, and I wasn’t sure how long he’d entertain my reluctance before insisting. I did my best to sound confident.  “Since it is a legal matter, I’ll make an exception.” 

 “May I come inside?”

 “Do you need me to say it?”

 “Maybe I just want to hear it.”

 When I threw myself at the mercy of the crossroads a year ago, pleading for help and uncaring who responded, I did not truly understand the forces I was contending with. Perhaps, there were limits to his powers. Something as simple as requiring an invitation to enter a building. “You’re welcomed inside.”

 I did not see him jump through the window, but only that he plopped into my chair with his booted feet raised on my desk, oblivious to the avalanche of paperwork a flick of his heel would send. 

“I do think you’re a good lawyer. Honest.” He raised his head to look over my cubicle at the deserted office. “And a hard worker.”

 “I had an old man in tears today begging me not to sue.” I tucked myself away in the corner of the cubicle, my gaze down at my feet.

 “Little Mari from the second string FIU Law made a grown man cry? I wish I was there.” Adriel chuckled. “It’s the quiet ones you have to look out for. I knew you’d become a Pitbull.”

 “Only if the Pitbull is biting at the ankles of dogs he knows are too small to fight back.”

Adriel settled in the chair, raising an eyebrow. A trickle of unease crept up my spine again.

"You wanted to discuss . . . a gift?”

“It’s me, actually. I’m the gift.” Adriel dislodged the little sword from Lady Justice and pointed at me as if he were knighting me. “I want you to break my contract with my demon, and I’ll consider your debt to me paid in full.”

I could only stare. “Demons make contracts with other demons?”

“Sure they do. All the time. Let’s just say if the crossroads came in another shape, it would be a pyramid.” When I continued to look at him blankly, he added. “It’s a pyramid scheme, kid.”

“I got that part.  I’m just surprised a demon like yourself–”

“Who said I was a demon?” He smirked. 

“You’re not?”

“Nope. Just a human like yourself higher up the chain.”

“What do you owe your demon, then?”

 “Oh, nothing important.” He pretended to clean his nails using the bronze sword. I could see they were already impeccable. “Just my life.”

“Your life?”

 “At least I get to keep my soul.” He winced. “Probably because he knows he’ll get that too anyway.”

 “Wait, if you die . . . wouldn’t my contract with you . . . just end?” Selfishly, I thought I could see a way out of my mess. 

 “Or more likely, my demon inherits the contract and he will collect payment ten years from now. He likes to collect fingers.”

 I shuddered. “Well, I don’t practice contract law.”

 “Lawyer is as lawyer does. It can’t be that hard. You took a contract law class before.”

 “Which I got a C- in, and part of the reason why I went looking for your help in the first place.”

 “Cs get degrees, kid. And don’t forget I know a fair deal about contract wheeling and dealing myself so I’ll coach you. It’s my line of work after all.”

 “Why not break the contract yourself?”

 “Part of my contract is that I must be represented by counsel.” His eyes narrowed. “First rule of contracts: read the contract. Don’t look at me with your judgmental eyes. You didn’t read your contract either.”

 He wasn't wrong. “Well, I don’t know where I would start.”

 “Now you have this.” Adriel reached in the shadow pooling behind his back and handed me a leather-bound tome reminiscent of those collecting dust in the special collection section of Florida University Law library. “Concord’s Contracts: Concepts and Cases. Ranked number one by the American Bar association. No need to thank me. Why don’t we start with a refresher? What are the three elements of a contract?”

 I slumped forward with the weight of the book in my hand. Thankfully for my arms the answer appeared in the first line of the table of contents. “Offer. Acceptance. Consideration.”

 “What is an offer?”

 You. Three times spoken fast, out loud. Offer. Offer. Awful. “Give me a second, these pages are flimsy.”

 “An offer is an expression of willingness to enter into a bargain.” He seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. “Like, ‘hey Mari, please be my lawyer and I promise I won’t come after your first born child in ten years’. Okay, I see you don’t have a sense of humor. That was a joke. Moving along, what’s acceptance?”

 I finally unstuck the wafer-thin pages and I resisted the urge to drop the book on his lap. “One moment please.”

 “Acceptance is the manifestation of the intent to accept on part of the offeree. One such example may be, ‘Gee, Adriel. I wouldn’t have been a lawyer without you! Of course I’ll help you!’ You can do the last one. What is the consideration?”

 My fingers slipped and I tore the edge of a page. Now I no longer tried to hide my glare. “Not this.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “I mean, consideration is the one where. . . each party gives something up?”

 “Precisely. You give me your time and talent now and represent me, and in return you will no longer have to worry when I’ll come knocking for repayment.”

“Found it! ‘Consideration is bargain for exchange . . . can be a promise, performance, or forbearance. What exactly is bargain for exchange?”

“No one knows. It’s the word lawyers wave around in court to sound smart. Think of it this way. A promise is when you say you’ll do something for me, and I say I’ll do something for you. Performance, you do something for me, I do something for you. Forbearance, you don’t do something that you can do if you wanted, like, if someone gave up smoking. As for bargain for exchange? Use it to shut someone up in a conversation. It works every time.”

“How many pages is your contract?”

 “I don’t know . . . somewhere in the ballpark of six-hundred and three.”

 “And how much time do we have to break it?”

 “Two weeks.”

 As it already stood, I arrived at work at eight, and I was out by seven on lucky nights. I had no reference point for how much preparation I’d need to get me up to date in contract law, not to mention hours pouring over Adriel’s actual contact. This gift was an extra helping of responsibility on top of my full plate. Would it be better to take my chances with Adriel’s demon?

“Please Mari,” In the split of the moment, Adriel transformed into someone unknown to me. His goading grin was wiped clean from his face, and I heard a sincerity in his tone. “You came to me once in your time of desperation, and I am coming to you now. I am not allowed to reveal myself to those who haven’t called me, and you’re the only lawyer who I ever made a deal with. Please.”

 We stood looking at one another with only the sound of Lady Justice’s scales bouncing up. Justice is blind, but not heartless. “I’ll represent you.”

 Adriel’s smile returned like it never left. “Good. Now, here is your first assignment. Did we just make a legally binding contract?”

 I ran my mind through the elements once more. Offer. Acceptance. Consideration. Yes, yes, and yes. He looked at me like either way I’d answer, he’d win.

 “There’s no proof.” I said, flipping through the pages until I landed on a footnote. “Oral contracts are legally enforceable but difficult to prove. I see what you’re up to, and I’m not falling for it.”

 I shooed Adriel’s boots off of my desk and retrieved my yellow notepad. I quickly scrawled out: On this 4^(th) day of August 2024, Mariana Garcia promises to represent the creature of the night identified as Adriel in the matter of breaking Adriel’s contract with a fellow creature of the night in exchange for erasing Mariana’s debt owed to Adriel.

 I signed my name and gently nudged the pen in Adriel’s hand. “Sign please.”

 “I can’t say no to your first contract.” He set the notepad back on the desk, with an address at the bottom. “Come by this address at noon tomorrow and you can read my contract. I also have to get back to work. But first, shall we shake on it?”

He grinned and offered his hand, testing my mettle. Two could play that game.

I locked eyes with his and took his hand in mine. It was warmer than I expected. “I look forward to our partnership.” 

He let go first. He moved towards the window but turned before reaching the threshold. “One more thing, I lied earlier. I didn’t have to change a single answer on your bar exam. You didn’t need me to become a lawyer. You would have done it on your own.”

 Without waiting for a response, he slipped away in the shadows leaving me alone with Lady Justice once more.

Here is the first chapter of the book I am working on.

Please feel free to look at any of my other works, with an eye towards improving my skills as a writer.

"It" lives in the woods. I don't know if there is a them or just an "it.". But I know for certain there is an "It"

I know because I have seen it up close and personal. My name is Mary Smith, I'm fourteen, the oldest of three children in our family. It is the year of our Lord 1702. We lived far away from town, far from those who shunned us. To survive, we have a small farm that allows us to grow a modest amount of crops. There is never enough to sell in town, just enough for us to store away to survive the harsh winters that have become common as of late.

The others in my family are my father and mother, Thomas and Sara. Along with the twins, May and Beth are identical twins. The two of them are so identical that there are times even I can't tell which one I'm talking to. That is until I spend a moment and look for a scar on May's arm, a scar she got from one of our billy goats when its horn caught her arm and took a chunk out of her.

It is a hard life, always working, and never an empty moment. When we aren't farming, we are out hunting to make sure we have food for the table and furs to trade in town for those items we can't grow, build, or invent.

The first time I became aware of "It" was last summer. I had been out hunting in the woods when I came across a quiet glen deep in the woods that looked inviting. In the midst of this glade was a small pond with an abundance of fish just ready for the catching.

It was a horribly hot afternoon, along with humidity that was oppressive. I took off my shoes and leggings to sit upon the bank, to cool off and rest prior to resuming my hunt. The water was cold and invigorating, a welcome relief from the heat. This was so refreshing I doffed the remainder of my clothes and wadded out into the water. This had the added benefit of allowing me to wash off the grime that I had accumulated over the last couple of days.

Leaning back and closing my eyes for a bit, I watched the sun play through the leaves as the shadows flitted across my eyelids. Moments into my rest, I felt something, something there was no reason to feel. There was no sound that caught my attention just a feeling of wrongness. Very slowly opening my eyes and turning my head first left and then to the right, trying to locate the wrongness I felt. There was nothing to be seen or heard, everything looked and sounded as it should. There were a couple of squirrels playing tag and chasing each other through the branches. The birds never once halted their songs. Yet there was something, what that something was I had no idea, I just felt it, I felt the wrongness in the air.

Sitting up, I began to walk around the glade, trying to locate that which set my nerves on edge. As I wandered around, I peered into the deeper, darker woods around the glade. It was then that I saw the wrongness that I felt. "It" was standing just past the limits of my vision, partially hidden by the intervening brush. This wasn't a person, this wasn't anything I had ever seen or heard of. "It" stood staring at me, as I stared back, it seemed to fade into the background. I never saw it leave, it just began to fade as smoke from a dying fire.

Suddenly I remembered that I was standing there naked to the world's gaze. Never one to panic, I made my way back to the pond and collected my clothing. While every other moment casting my eyes back towards the wrongness. Moving as slowly as possible, I made my way back to the trail I blazed. Never stopping to dress myself. That would take precious moments. I felt I didn't have, I just wanted to get away from the area.

With distance from the glade, the sense of wrongness began to fade. At first I walked, the further away I got, the faster I moved until I was flat out running. The brush and the brambles catching at my legs and sides, I didn't care. All I cared about was getting away from there, back to the safety of home and family. A mile or so away, I slowed down and did my best to catch my breath and collect my thoughts. Taking a moment to collect myself and take stock of my situation, I began by inspecting myself to see and attend to the scratches I had gathered while running. Standing naked in the woods, I found that my legs were OK, just scratched up a bit.

At fourteen, my body was young and strong. I stand five feet tall, around a hundred lbs. My breasts are small, but I have hopes that when I have a child they will be up to the task of feeding my children. As the oldest child, my father relied on me to take an active role in the care of our farm and family. To that end, from an early age, I was taught how to hunt and farm to sustain the homestead. By the time I had reached our farm, my mood had improved, and the fear I felt had receded to a dull ache. As I entered the yard, Father looked at me and asked,

"Mary, are you OK, you look out of breath and a bit skiddish."

"I'm fine, Father. I was spooked by what I thought was some beast in the woods. I first thought it might be a wolf although in reflection it had to be a wild boar. I feel rather silly running through the woods like I did. Had I had my musket, I would have brought home a fine meal that might have lasted us a couple of weeks."

"Mary, when you go out tomorrow, take along the musket. You never know what you might scare up. I'm surprised you didn't take it today."

"I had thought I was going to fill my baskets with fruit. However, I got spooked before I ever got there. It was silly of me to act that way. I grew up in these woods, and you taught me everything I needed to know to survive."

"Mary I've been through these woods a thousand times, and every once in awhile I get spooked. When you are alone, your mind can start to wander, and when it wanders, it begins to see what it wants to see. There has been more than one occasion when I had high-tailed it out of the woods and back here to the safety of home. So don't let it worry you that you got spooked; it just proves that you have the normal amount of caution when in an area that might prove to be a danger."

With that bit of fatherly reassurance, I went into the house to check on my sisters. May was helping Ma in the kitchen, and Beth I found out back feeding the chickens. Sitting down on the fence, I called out to Beth to come and sit with me for a bit.

"Beth, you spent a lot of time back here, have you ever seen anything or anybody lurking in the woods? Something you aren't quite sure what it was you saw, or when you did see it, you were unable to see the whole of it?"

Beth's response gave me a start.

"Did you see it to?"

"Did I see what?"

"I've seen "It" many a time.

"It" never comes out of the woods, but I have seen it standing just inside the tree line, never out in the open, always just far enough back to hide among the trees and bushes. A couple of times I tried to sneak up on it from the side, and once I walked straight towards it, only to find that the moment I turned my eyes or became distracted, it's gone. I don't see or hear it go, it's just gone."

"Beth, when did you see it last?"

"It was there just yesterday, same as always, just watching as if it were waiting for something. It never stays very long, just long enough for me to see it, and then poof, it's gone. You know now that I think about it, "It" is always in the same spot, the exact same spot!"

"Beth, would you take me to where you see it, the spot "It" stands upon?"

It took a bit of prodding to convince Beth to take me there. When we got to the place, you could see a spot where the grass had been trampled flat. Oddly, there wasn't a path to that spot, just the flattened vegetation. Beth began pulling on the hem of my blouse, pleading with me to come away from there. As I began to enter the woods, Beth said she was leaving and if I knew what was good for me, I would get out of there now. I watched Beth turn on her heels and run back to the chicken coops.

I, on the other hand, found a mystery, one I needed to figure out. As I approached the spot where "It" stood, I looked about for any signs of where it came from or went to. There was nothing there. I have been tracking animals in the woods ever since I could walk. Father would take me on his hunts and teach me how to read the spoors left behind when anything travels through the woods. I'm good enough that I could tell you the size and direction a mouse took in the underbrush. When it came to "It", there was nothing save the trampled grass.

Later that night, I lay awake thinking. If "It" wanted to harm me earlier or us, or for that matter, there was many a time it could have done so. So what did "It" want? I decided I was going to find out. Throughout the night and the next few days, I began to formulate a plan. The first thing I was planning was to build a blind close to the spot where "It" stood while watching Beth. I couldn't just build it all at once, if "It" was watching I had to do it over the course of many days. So for days I would gather the fruits from nearby trees and bushes while moving branches and other fallen debris into the shape I had in mind.

Beth said that "It" never came out in the morning; only in the late afternoon would she ever see the watcher. As I set about my plan, I found the spot I wanted, about twenty yards from where "It" watched Beth. Each day I found a branch here or a pile of brush, and very slowly I built my blind. If "It" was smart, it would take notice of a pile of debris. So I built the blind in the center of a ring of bushes whose leaves were just beginning to fill out for the spring season. I hoped that any difference would be thought of as just the new spring growth. Three days later the blind was finished, and as I stood a distance away, one might never guess it was a construct rather than natural growth.

The next day I started out at dawn and made my way to the blind. Before I left the house, I told my father that I was going hunting and would be back rather late. I took with me a skin of water and some dried jerky. Making my way into the woods far from my blind, I scouted around for any signs of "It". Nothing was to be found, not a footprint, not a disturbed branch, nothing. After making a very wide trek away from the blind, I made my way back towards it. As I moved aside the branch I placed to hide the entrance, I decided that I had done a good job. There was plenty of room to sit or lay down while I waited.

As the sun rose, so the temperature rose with it. What I hadn't thought of was air flow, I had made it so dense there was very little air movement within the blind. Well, there was nothing to be done about it, I just had to live with it. All through the morning I kept vigil. If Beth was correct, our friend wouldn't be around until later in the afternoon, however, I couldn't take the chance that he was nearby and watching.

As the day wore on, the boredom was growing by the minute. I wasn't able to move around much for fear of making noise that would give me away. A bit after midday, I saw Beth working in the yard, feeding the pigs. She would on occasion look outward towards the woods, her eyes scanning the area, watching for "It".

Turning back to watch the woods, I became aware that there was something different that hadn't been there before. It was hard to make out it's shape or size, there was a smokey look to it's edges that made it difficult to focus on it's true shape. I had to wonder how it got there without being seen or heard. My eyes were turned for just a few moments, far too short for any person to sneak past me. It certainly didn't fly there, it had to walk, but why didn't it leave a trail? Nothing moves without disturbing something.

As I sat there watching "It", I grew impatient. I wanted to know what it was and what was it's nature. Was it an animal or a demon? Watching "It" I began to study how it moved and shifted, around the place it stood. There was an eerie smoothness to it's motions. It almost seemed to glide across the surface, and when it stopped, there was a hint of motion as if it were sinking to the ground.

While my eyes were fixed upon it I began to see something that gave me pause. When "It" moved, it never moved any branches out of it's way, it just went through them as if they weren't there. Smoke through the branches was the only way I would be able to describe what I was seeing. So if this thing was vaporous, why did it leave the ground mashed flat wherever it stood still? Did it have the ability to change it's state from solid to mist?

I began to wonder if I could catch or trap this thing? What would catch mist? While I pondered this, my legs began to cramp from sitting in one position for so long. As quietly as I could, I began to shift myself to gain some relief. To my horror, my legs had fallen asleep, which caused me to knock the branches that composed my blind. As soon as this occurred, "It" turned and looked in my direction. From one blink of the eyes to the next, "It" was gone. Damn, now "It" knows I was here.

Looking at the spot where this thing stood, I could see no signs that it had ever been there. It was then that the hair on the back of my neck began to scream at me that there was something wrong. Very slowly, I turned my head to look around. "It" stood behind my blind, looking straight at me. For the next few moments, my heart stood still, not a single beat could be felt.

"It" did nothing, "It" just stood there looking. Oddly, even this close, I was unable to discern any of "It's" features. The place where one would expect a face to be was nothing but a swirling mist of dark fog. The entirety of what should have been it's body was only a variation of what it's face appeared to be composed of. Rooted to the spot, unable to move, I fixed my eyes upon "It".

There was the sudden realization that throughout this there was not a sound from this thing, not the rustling of cloth nor the subtle noises that any living thing makes just by virtue of being alive. In one instant, as I blinked my eyes, "It" was gone, gone as if it never existed. Twisting myself around, I took in the whole of my surroundings, nothing to be seen, nothing to ever know that the watcher was ever there.

Looking down, I saw the shaking of my hands. That's funny, I thought; I don't remember feeling them shaking, but shaking they were. At once the rest of me began to shake, a shaking that began in my soul and radiated outward. I grabbed my hands to stop the reaction. This just transferred the shaking to the rest of my body. Terror seeped into every cell of my body. All I could do was fold up into a little ball and hide in the corner of my blind.    I lay there, my soul in fear.

As my nerves began to relax, I began to ponder what I was witnessing. First and foremost, "It" could have done what it wanted to do to me, I would have had no way to protect myself. Yet "It" didn't do a thing, it just looked at me and then went away. As I began to think rational thoughts again, I took notice of that one idea. "It" could have hurt me, so why didn't it? Why just watch? What did "It" want? That's the key I thought, what did it want is the question I should be asking. Once my mind began to follow this thread, my body relaxed and once again came under my control.

OK, I thought, it's clear that my idea of a blind was useless.      "It" knew but just didn't care that I was there and watching. So if it knew I was there and didn't care, why bother hiding? If I couldn't hide from it and it didn't have a desire to hurt me, maybe I could just sit out in the open and wait for it to appear.

It took me a couple of days before I worked up the courage to try my idea. Setting out early, the dawn just hinting at it's arrival, I made it to the area I wanted. A fallen pine tree was to be my seat, set around twenty feet from where "It" likes to stand. As the morning wore on, the forest felt perfectly normal. The squirrels played their games among the branches, the birds their songs felt right, and the remainder of the world felt right.

Last night was long, and I spent much of the night soothing Beth's fears. She was convinced that "It" was after her and just waiting for her to have a lap in her vigilance. It took me hours to get her to go to sleep. Only the promise that I would stay awake and watch over her finally allowed her to sleep.

This unfortunately sapped my strength for today's mission. My feet felt leaden and my head fuzzy. It was a challenge keeping myself awake.        If not for my task, this would have been a magnificent day to hike the woods in search of game. Instead here I was sitting on my ass waiting for whatever "It" was. As the afternoon wore on I found it harder to concentrate; my fatigue was quickly catching up to me. The sound of life in the forest was lulling me to sleep. Thinking if I shut my eyes for just a second I could replenish some of my vitality.

Something was wrong, before I even opened my eyes, I knew there was a wrongness in the air. Fear gripped my soul, why did I ever think doing this was a good idea? Very slowly, I cracked open one eye just far enough to let a bit of light in. There "It" was, standing right where it stood countless times before.

As quietly as I could, I turned my head to give myself a better view of this thing. "It" paid no attention to me, it had to be aware of me sitting there I was after all sitting in plain sight. As I observed the creature, I was startled to notice that I could see shapes through it's body. As the sun filtered through the trees, I could vaguely see the shape of the tree behind it, not clearly, but see it nonetheless. "It" made no sound of its own. "It" was just there.

Nearby, a squirrel was rushing around on its quest for food. As the squirrel ran around, it ran right through the thing I was watching. "It" didn't flinch or even notice the squirrel run through it's body. That startled me, the idea that this thing might have no substance. Was "It" a ghost, a specter, maybe even a witch or warlock? As I studied the thing I turned my head to locate a sound behind me. Nothing but my friend the squirrel on its hunt for lunch. Returning my gaze to the spot ahead, I found that "It" had left. After waiting for about an hour for "It" to return I gave up and headed home.

Everything at home was as normal as normal could be. Beth and May, as usual, were creating havoc in the house. May was upset with Father for making her take care of the pigs for the next few weeks for talking back to mom last night. Beth was also on the father's naughty list for allowing the goats to break out of their pen. Causing everyone to scramble to recapture all of them. If you ever want to experience futility firsthand, try to round up twenty goats. Not only will a goat do what a goat wants to do regardless of what others want, you also learn quickly never to turn your back on a billy. Doing so is a guarantee to have your backside butted.

Every day for the next two weeks I repeated my vigil. And every day the results were the same. I would sit on my log, and "It" would stop and watch the farm. I came to understand that it wasn't Beth herself that "It" was watching it was the entire farm. It just so happened that "It" came by at the time Beth was doing her chores.

After the two weeks, I began to alter things a bit. The first thing I did was to move a little closer to "It's" spot. I was afraid that I would scare it off. That was not to be the case. If anything, "It" became a bit more casual around me. Every once in awhile, "It" would spend a bit of time watching me while I sat there.

During my time watching, I took to the habit of sketching what I was seeing. It seems that "It" had an interest in what I was doing. To test this idea, one day I left my spot before "It" came. I left my satchel filled with sketches upon my log.

When I returned the next day, my satchel had been opened and the pages looked through but were put back in the wrong order.

"The Earth Becomes Alive" - This is my first story, written in a short time, please evaluate and give recommendations for the story

Year 2026. Scientists worldwide are monitoring the Earth's core, which has become increasingly unstable and hotter in recent times.

Humans are sensing moisture in the air, a phenomenon that scientists cannot explain. Ocean waters are transforming into a more viscous, honey-like substance. Caves are filling with water, and the Earth's core is emitting sounds resembling a heartbeat. The planet's core, once a molten ball, has begun to pulsate with renewed vigor. Each beat reverberates through the Earth's crust, causing tremors and rumblings. As if awakening from a long slumber, the Earth stretches and flexes its muscles. Mountain ranges rise, valleys fill with water, and geysers erupt from the depths like fountains of life force.

The Earth's heartbeat marks the beginning of the end. Scientists cannot see what is happening within the core, but they understand: the Earth is becoming alive.

The land, oceans, and everything on Earth is changing, taking on a reddish hue. People who consume water from oceans, seas, or any body of water on Earth are dying.

Land and soil are spreading across the oceans like skin healing a wound. Each day, people feel terrifying tremors, and the air becomes thinner. The Earth begins to breathe, swallowing trees and other structures as if they were insignificant.

The water turns red, like blood. Scientists realize this process is unstoppable. They are powerless to halt the Earth's transformation.

Caves become veins, the core becomes a heart, and the Earth's layers become fat, muscle, and skin.

This is the end of humanity. Some have committed suicide, while others, unable to die, envy the dead.

Leukocytes, which protect the human body from viruses and diseases, have become the Earth's defense against humans. In three months, in a year, the Earth has become an organism. It has eradicated humans and everything they have created.

The Earth has become a higher form of evolution. Humans were merely the first stage in the planet's development. The planet has followed in the footsteps of humans and evolved into a sentient organism, with its own mind, personality, and thoughts.

You know how a mother is supposed to love their child unconditonally? First of all, I don’t believe that is true for a second. I mean, look around you. With all the gruesome things mothers around the world have done to their kids, I really do not think that as soon as you push that child out through your vagina, you will love it forever no matter what. Second of all, what kind of love are we talking about here? Unconditional love is one of those rare things you only see in the movies, because in the real world, there are always conditions. Lots of them. 

With all of the horrible forementioned mothers, mine is pretty great. But her love also comes with conditions. And my lack of fulfuling these conditions, has turned her love into some kind of malignant emotion. Sometimes I catch her looking at me, with I don’t know what. Sometimes it looks like worry, sometimes sadness, and other times what looks like pure despise. 

I’m not a terrible daughter, I’m really not. I come home to most christmases, I always buy (or chip in) for gifts, and I treat my nieces and nephews with all the love in the world. But I do not have kids. 

You see, that is one condition. 

I am almost done with my master’s degree as a primary school teacher, get good grades, have a stable economy with a part time job. I have also (almost) completed a bachelor’s degree and a one year degree, while completing my master’s. That means I have at times been doing three full time studies at once, sometimes while working on the side. But I’m not planning on working as a teacher in Norway any time soon. 

And aparently, staying in Norway is one condition. 

My mother loved, and loves, to travel. She has told me about her trips abroad, starting already at age 14, travelling alone to England and going to parties and drinking. She went backpacking around Europe on several occasions, without phones and any real plans. With only letters as her communication home to her own mother. But I, I travel too much. 

Because, limiting your traveling is a condition. 

Love is always difficult, I have been lucky enough to have been loved twice (at least) by two great men, whom my family also loved. I have been in serious relationships, never cheated and been adored by the “parents-in-law”. But they are ex-boyfriends. Breaking up with someone, somehow also means breaking up with your own mother’s love. 

And when asked if I have any current boyfriends, I never dare say “no, but I am dating this lovely girl”, because I have already heard too many jokes and comments. Sexuality is a big condition. 

So what if you fulfill all these conditions? Your mother loves you, but are you you? 

hey, existentialist little book i've been writing. at first it was just writings i did, but now i'm contemplating on whether or not i should keep going with it. all feedback appreciated thanks for readinggg https://docs.google.com/document/d/1z1sYuUhfADMURGeux69X3OC8bfg9flX7/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=112733091092407162916&rtpof=true&sd=true

p.s. sorry had to censor the name

I see your face each time I close my eyes. What have you done to me? What have I done to myself? Look at you now. I saw you in hysterics, but my concern meant nothing. You brushed it all aside. You will age; beauty fades. You will be lonely. You will never escape your insatiable need for instant gratification. Men will come and go. Alcohol. Drugs. Dirty hotel rooms. Brief encounters.

The rest of your years: punctuated by wanting. I don’t want to be like you— a picture of despair where nothing changes. I want to escape the carousel, the memories of which were fun. But it can’t be like that all the time. The days are all the same, in my mind and on the streets that wind up to a town where I don’t belong.

The monuments of our long tryst—I pass them now, and I just smile. You pulled me into narrow streets for heady kisses, sitting in parks at dawn, drunk on you and cheap, sour wine.

Now, meaning has priority, but I can’t seem to dig it out—stuck in the grime of haunting memory. The dust is laid, and it’s all ended. We were alike, but you were just a game, played out a thousand times.

Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of you, your golden hair. But I know now that it’s red. It tears the wounds apart. Indelible memories swarm my mind; my heart races. I want to forget. Truth be told, I search you out in other people. Wildness and the pursuit of excess—I’m drawn to it intensely.

[290] words.

You hate your smile, But I find so much joy in it You say you hate your eyes But those are the eyes I call home You say you hate your hands But those are the hands that help me get up when I cannot You say you hate how you look But you are my home so please don’t hate what I do dearly love

Ahead is desolation incarnate. An eternal vacuum. A backdrop of lights reminds me that there’s always something somewhere, even if it is unreachable. My hand holds a handrail to my left, connected to my company shuttle. A dingy white thing, no wings needed as it’s never supposed to enter atmospheres. Despite its dwarf size, the ship is magnified by my perception, and stretches on forever. I’m just in my head. My grip upon the handle is needlessly tight, my forearms tense, my fingers unmoving. Despite my anxieties I prepare for launch by pulling close to the hull of the ship, giving myself leverage. Then, through sheer will, and a lack of conscious consent, I push off into the sandless desert. My heart thumps in iambic pentameter, whispering a Shakespearian hymn to my fears as I fly aimless, groundless, and surrounded by nothingness. On my back, the motion pack hums, reminding me to reach for the controller which hangs off the right. I find it and orient myself until I’m facing the nose of the ship. The nose has a window just before it, though Sharon and I never use that, preferring the cameras which show all the necessary angles for a safe flight. Sharon can probably see me now – if she’s awake enough to look.

At the end of the ship’s nose is an orange-brown meteor, just large enough to fit both my feet and a drill. That meteor is a deposit of the densest metal known, hardium. Hardium is not named so because it’s hard (it’s actually quite brittle), it’s named after the scientist Joseph Hardi. He’s not the most creative name-giver as Sharon and I have learned through our endeavours with “Hardi-Corporations”. I steer my pack towards the hardium, then boost myself forwards. I land gently, then hammer the stake into the deposit, sending fragments of glass-like metal all about. The fragments shine against the ship light, scattering further and further apart from each other. I like to think that’s how the stars travelled, exploding into small lights and spreading like they were blasted from a cosmic shotgun.

I reach for my drill, which charges spike-first into oblivion towards some gravity well. We picked up on a large source of gravity far off to the right of the ship, one we couldn’t identify. It’s the type of pull that would be unnoticeable to a stranger to the abyss, only hinted at by the movements of lighter objects. I feel it, though. I know when the dark siren calls.

I grab the orange cable, and reel in my drill. With the arm-length device in hand, I hold it over the deposit, and activate it. It fires out four claws that form a square outside the main spike, clamping down onto the meteor and holding the drill in place. I then reach for the four orange pockets on the front side of my belt, which hold vials the size of a thumb. These vials are meant to hold hardium, and despite their miniscule size they are capable of holding five kilograms of the stuff. I stick the first vial in the top of the drill, then pull a trigger beneath. I tap my foot five times, counting subconsciously, and fill the vial to its maximum. I store the vial away, then pull the next vial out and drill again. Then a third time, and then a fourth time. The fourth vial, when I extract it from the drill, slips away a little, though it doesn’t build up too much speed thanks to the weight. It’s always the fourth vial that tries to make a run for it. I grab the tube, having to force it towards myself in order to fit it into the pocket. With all the vials full I let myself float, the cable holding me close as the hardium reflects an alteration of the universe behind. It shows a great many stars glowing with a faint burnt umber, and those which held normally more attractive colours have become putrid. I turn myself, and face the infinite chasm, gazing into grand burning astral bodies which once acted as guides for lost sea-farers. A thought creeps in, one of familiar sort. The kind of musing that, though unwanted, appears whenever I’d stare at the bottom of a cliff, or into a deadly river current. A soundless voice which inhabits that thought suggests I join what is at the end of the river, or the bottom of the cliff. Now, the voice murmurs from the inky space between the stars and offers to take me in, so long as I unclamp myself from the deposit, and jump. I’m invited to wonder how long I’d last out there, how far I’d make it. Another thought surfaces, and longs for the edge of eternity, which rationality reminds me is impossible to reach.

I wonder, now, if that’s what death would be like. To drift in the pitch black, with little lights far away to remind you of existence, to remind you of what you can never have. I wonder if I would miss this life if I were to drift away into the cosmos – and I wonder, in turn, if I would miss this life if I were to drift in death.

My focus returns to reality. I’m staring into the void with the ship in the corner of my eye. I unclamp myself, and leap off the deposit, but have no intention of accepting the silent voice’s offer. I guide my motion pack towards the ship’s hangar. Well, I try to. I’ve found myself in a bloody battle with inertia, thanks to the added twenty kilograms of boringly named metal.

“Motion pack’s struggling to push me now,” I say aloud, forgetting my radio is always on.

I hear a grunt, a ruffling, and a groggy “The motion pack always has trouble pushing you,” from Sharon.

I’m impressed she woke up with that on the burner. Sharon must dream of her many creative remarks – and I committed the great sin of awaking her from a deep slumber.

I do, after a while, make it to the hanger. Once inside, I turn to face the abyss, to tell it that I’ve conquered it once more. But I stop, and stare for a moment.

Between the Orderly chaos of the universe and her galaxies, I see an expansion amidst the lights – a dark cloud painted over the brilliance, where two little frog legs spill out the bottom.

“Do you see that?” I call in to Sharon.

She takes a moment, likely tapping into the camera on my helmet. “See what?” She responds.

“The little void blob, the one that looks about the size of the sun?”

“Yeah… what about it?”

“It looks like a frog,”

I hear static, then nothing. She probably groaned in annoyance and cut the radio. She hates it when I bother her, especially for silly things like that. I appreciate how the stars manage to space themselves so perfectly to make a shape like that, even if she doesn’t care.

I close the outward airlock door, wait for the oxygen to filter through, then open the inward airlock. I’m met with a hall that heads right, leading to the control room Sharon is situated in. Ahead is a storage room, within which is a bag of a special material that looks plastic, but can withstand carrying a hundred and twenty kilograms of mass. I float on over, stuff the vials into the bag, then follow the hallway into the control room. Sharon is buckled into her seat, just staring out the window we never use. Her hair is crazy. Strands point in every direction but down, as though she’s wearing a wig of snakes. Ahead of her are the eight monitors that connect to our camera systems. Six are dedicated to showing the various angles outside the ship, and two are dedicated to my helmet’s camera and a drone’s. Sharon’s cut my camera feed.

I switch off my radio so that she doesn’t hear me twice, then pull off my helmet.

“Sharon,” I call. She turns around, her giant eyes landing on me. “Uh, how many trips ‘till quota?”

“Five,” she figures. Her lips squish to one side in pity. “You okay with doing all that?”

“ ‘course,” I nod. I remember her saying she wished she could help more – she’s prone to freezing up out there – but I’m not bothered by her staying on the ship. I hated it the last time I was the “man on the ship”, so much so, in fact, that I’ve come to prefer the anxiety-inducing drill-jumps. She can be as comfortable as she wants.

I go through the hangar system again after refilling my pockets with empty vials, and find myself once more hanging off the side of the ship, staring into the cosmic gulf. Like last time I trick myself into launching off the side, and steer over to the deposit. I get to work after reattaching my stability cable, fill up one vial, two vials, three vials, then when I go to place the fourth vial into the drill opening, it slips. It gets a solid amount of speed without the extra mass, heading straight for the base of the meteor. I reach further above, expecting the tube to hit the hardium and bounce upwards.

Instead, the vial comes to a dead stop, and sits in place for a while. Then, it heads in the opposite direction, gaining speed, fast, flying across my face. I jump off the deposit, the cable tugs, and narrowly I pinch the centre of the vial. I find myself facing the direction of the vial, my hand and the tube blocking my vision somewhat, but not enough for me to miss it.

Behind the vial is a great void between the stars. A silhouette, not too unlike the frog-shape from the hangar. This shape also has a center mass, with two frog-like limbs pouring from the sides – only, the limbs are higher. I pull the vial back, let myself be pulled into the nothingness while the cable holds me firm, and look about, scanning for the original frog shape. For far too long I search, and come to realize that there is no other shape aside from what I see ahead.

The new outline is derived from the same object, an alteration of the frog form. I stare motionless, my heart beating so fast it hums.

I have no thought, no capability of such a thing. My mind is as desolate as the grand eternal surrounding. The shape changed. Shapes that look like the size of the sun don’t change.

It must be closer than I thought, and I’m just seeing a different angle.

“Hey, Sharon, remember that frog shadow?” I ask.

“Ugh,” she groans, assuming I’m about to make another dumb joke.

“No, no, seriously, look,”

There’s a pause. “What about it?”

“The shape changed,”

Silence overwhelms the radio. She’s doing two things – checking our radar to see if it’s close enough to cause concern, and trying to see if she can identify it. I float a while longer, trying to see if the shape changes again. If it is actually moving, it’s doing so at a pace slow enough that I can’t register it.

“Alright,” Sharon breaks the silence, “It’s not close, but I also don’t know what it is. I think it’s time we pack up, because that’s what’s causing the gravity well,”

I unclamp the drill and attach it to my waist again. I then rip out the stake that held me in place, and push off, drifting steadily back to the ship. I manage to guide myself easier, go through the hangar, the system, and drop everything off in the storage room. The vials go in the bag, I drop my suit and drill, and grab the rails above to head back to Sharon.

She’s typing something. I fly over to see she’s working the console AI. Her Medusa hair blocks the answers the AI gives on the left side, but I can see her questions clear enough. She’s started by asking the AI for the distance to the nearest star. She’s trying to use that distance to estimate how far the object is.

“Why do you care about its distance?” I ask, “It’s not on the radar,”

“Because whatever that thing is, it isn’t a black hole. With how big it looks from here, a black hole would have a stronger pull – this is pulling like a nearby planet,”

There are strange things in this universe. Things ranging from inexplicable flashes of light, as though creation is trying to brute force itself into the middle of everlasting darkness, to sounds of planetary battles resonating billions of years after the event’s occurrence.

This, to me, is stranger than all of those. I see the shadow again through the monitor – it’s no longer just a blob of darkness with two outstretched limbs. Its body has elongated, curving and twisting like a mythological sea serpent. Diamond limbs reach from its sides, gradually blotting out a greater margin of heavenly bodies, while at the peak of the spiralling body a beak-like point culminates. I look back down at Sharon’s AI screen. She’s now asked it to estimate the distance of the unknown object. It takes a minute for that answer to be given, and after Sharon reads it, everything stops.

There were sounds she was making I would normally never take note of. Her breathing was faster, her nose was clogged and causing a light whistle, and she was shuffling about. I hadn’t noticed any of these noises until she stopped making them entirely.

She stares on with a stillness at whatever the AI said, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and the once writhing strands that made up her hair begin to cower.

“Renald,” she whispers, “look at this,”

I grab her shoulders and shift leftward to see the AI. I first notice the gravity sensor – a compass with yellow lights showing gravitational pull – and then find the answer portion of the AI. At the top, which is the answer to her first question, reads that the nearest star is an unnamed one 6.332 light years off. Below that is the answer to her last question.

“Based on how light from the seen stars behind the object interact with it before reaching our view,” reads the AI, “it can be determined that the object is within a range of 1.002 light years, or a little over 9 and a half trillion kilometres away.”

My hands, which have never been the type to jitter, shake as I lift them off Sharon. I’ve turned stiff, my muscles tightened to the point of tearing, my heart buzzing like a humming-bird’s wings. I’m frozen, both in mind and body, with only my eyes remaining sentient and mobile. They first see the gravity sensor, looking into the yellow light, the siren’s call into the bleak. She sings, and her hum sets that compass alight, luring our poor, naïve ship away. I look ahead, through the window we never use, and see the hardium deposit, unmoving, refusing to give into the void’s calling. Then, my eyes fall upon the monitor in which I see the grand shape. The living iceberg, that which the dark siren calls us to.

Its wings are no longer small diamonds. They’ve unravelled, becoming a great cape that swallows the gleaming lights of hope behind. Its eyes open and reveal the essence of hell in which the defiers’ souls burn like red suns. Within its throat, a blue light comes to fruition, revealing teeth that could impale a near infinite number of consecutive earths. While I hear no sound bellow from its mighty jaw, I know that, despite all known laws, its roar will shatter planets across the galaxy.

Ahead is desolation incarnate. It is not a grand desert; it is not a void. It is not an infinite vacuum, nor is it a mere abyss. It is the colossal spawn of nihility, set to bring forth the damnation of eternity.

Hi everybody, I am having trouble finding the best way to write a thank you letter to my urologist. I’m special so I used ai for some help but I want this to be a good letter and not sound like a robot. Any feedback would be amazing!

Dear Dr. ,

I don't think I could thank you enough for the wonderful job you did on my surgery! I am deeply and forever thankful for everything you have done for me. Dr. , you saved my life! Thank you for coming back to your practice and helping me get better.

I don’t know what I would have done without you. I was lost and saw no end to my struggles with my health. For over four years I was dealing with the frustration of countless visits to the emergency room and urgent care just to manage my relentless UTIs. I was scared and overwhelmed, but your unwavering support and understanding helped me gain the confidence I desperately needed. With patience and compassion you listened to my concerns, validated my feelings, and reassured me when I felt lost. Your ability to empathize with my struggles made all the difference.

I am especially grateful for your brilliance in identifying that my kidney was the underlying cause of my UTIs. Your insight into my condition was remarkable, and it was clear that removing it would be the best option for my health. I truly admire your bravery in taking on the challenge of performing a procedure you had never done before—removing my kidney. Your willingness to step outside your comfort zone, along with your initiative to collaborate with a nephrologist to ensure I received the best care possible, speaks volumes about your dedication as a physician. You not only ended my suffering but also restored my hope and faith in my health journey.

Thank you for being such an incredible doctor and for showing me such kindness and strength during my recovery. You are the sweetest, most selfless person I have ever met, I just want you to know that if it weren't for you I would probably still be in an endless circle of relentless UTIs. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and I feel incredibly fortunate to have you as my doctor.

Sincerely,

Fenton's footsteps echoed in the narrow alley, the tall buildings on either side blocking the light of the otherwise luminous full moon. The chilly, crisp night air made mist of every breath. He was unconcerned with safety as a tall and muscular mixed martial artist. That is, until an evil, foul-smelling demon from the furthest reaches of hell burst from the manhole in front of him.

He screamed.

The demon screamed.

His legs didn't wait for his brain to catch up, and he began to sprint to the end of the alley.

"Where are you going? Please, I've been stuck in the sewer for hours! Can you call my boss? My phone is done for, but you can reach him at the public sewage department number!"

Slinking back, Fenton felt like a very relieved coward.

Upon closer inspection, he could see that the demon was, in fact, a small man coated in multiple oozing layers of filth wearing what probably used to be a high vis uniform.

He called the public sewage department number and eventually got through to the man's boss.

"Thank God! I'm so glad he's OK! Please give him the phone."

"He's dripping shi...slime everywhere, and there is no way I'm handing him my phone. Here, I'll put you on speaker."

"Can you hear me, Sam? Are you all right?"

Against all evidence to the contrary, the slightly steaming worker replied, "Yeah, I'm fine."

The boss sounded very stressed. "What the hell happened? You were supposed to stay on the main path."

"I'm not sure I can tell you just now. It's about the reason we were working down there."

"You might as well tell me. Some reporter was snooping around, and everybody in Ontario is going to know by next week at the latest."

"I saw the alligator go down a side pipe and followed, but the safety grate closed behind me, and I couldn't get it open again. At least this narrows our search, though. I saw the alligator cross over into the eastern storm drains. We can shut the grates and catch it in the storm sewers."

Fenton didn’t think he could contribute anything constructive, but he had to say something. "An alligator. In Ontario. How?"

"Probably someone's illegal pet they released when it grew too large," Sam told him dismissively. "Now it's 10 feet long and wreaking havoc on some of our more delicate sewer components."

Fenton thought about this a moment, then said, "I'll catch it if you pay me."

"What do you mean?" Asked the manager on the phone.

"I'm from Florida." He said.

"That makes you more qualified than any of us. You're hired."

They worked out the details, and Fenton confirmed he was sure three times.

Sam's apartment was in the same direction as Fenton's hotel, so they walked together for a while.

"What brings you to Ontario?" Sam asked.

Fenton was alert to their surroundings given the time of night, looking around as he said, "I've got a mixed martial arts fight tomorrow night."

Sam scraped some muck off his arms and said, "That's amazing. How have you fared in previous fights?"

"I do OK," Fenton said modestly.

That was all the polite conversation they had in them, and they walked in comfortable silence a few blocks before Sam headed down a different street. Fenton took a deep breath of crisp, fresh air. He hoped he wouldn't smell like Sam after he finished catching the alligator tomorrow.

Fenton and the dozens of workers he met the next morning were able to find and close off the alligator in a bleak storm drain three blocks away from a large park. He got the OK to go down into it about noon, descending on a ladder with a head lamp on. He looked around, subconsciously looking for clowns or similar, but there was only an enormous, angry alligator. He knew what to do with that.

He got a loop around the alligators jaw first go and secured it to the bars of the metal grate blocking the next passageway. Now, he had to tranquilize the creature. He got close enough to the side of the animal to administer the injection in the right place, but that didn't save him. The furious alligator began a death roll that smashed him into the concrete.

Fenton was no stranger to pain and knew better than to move in the opposite direction of the roll, so he waited for his opportunity to get free. This came soon. The alligator was now having an unexpected nap. His right leg was still crushed under the immense animal. He pushed and pulled and twisted until finally he got it out, calling to the workers that it was safe for them to enter.

"What's going to happen to the alligator?" He asked.

"She'll go to the Ontario Zoo." The manager told him.

"He. Female alligators don't get this big." Fenton corrected.

"I don't care how the alligator identifies. I will not judge the alligator. I just want the mayor to stop calling me."

He and the workers hauled the heavy creature out of the storm drain on a big, sturdy piece of tarp. The alligator was successfully transferred to the zoo.

Fenton won his fight that night, but barely because of his injured leg. He made sure to tell his competitor that it was a good match and a close thing.

Back in the US, his first stop was the currency exchange.

"You took nearly 20%! That was my alligator catching money!"

The exchange lady was unimpressed. She looked like she took people's alligator catching money all the time.

She probably puts her cast iron skillets in the dishwasher, Fenton uncharitably thought.

Still, he walked out the door into the fading late afternoon light almost five hundred dollars richer, and he was happy.

Hi everyone,I'm a native French speaker, and I've recently translated my short novel from French to English. I'm looking for native English speakers to give me honest feedback on the translation, especially in terms of flow, naturalness, and readability. Since this is my first time translating my work, I'd love any tips or corrections that can help improve the overall quality.

You can access the document here 👇

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1P05QGfdLfRQH0PRLje5DIN6c5oNBpojG8aHs9pdsFXY/edit?usp=drivesdk

If you enjoy helping out or are passionate about reading, I'd be grateful for your insights! Thanks in advance for your time and help!

Hi I've just started writing and it's my first time writing since high school! I'd love to get some feedback and areas for improvement before I carry on! :) (I couldn't figure out how to attach images so I'm just going to copy-paste into here and hope for the best haha)

Moira was just thirteen years old the first time she came face-to-face with one of the cold women. Pale skin. Such pale skin you could see the criss cross of veins beneath the white. A network of blue-green veins beneath her skin, like sub-dermal woad, spider-webbed just out of reach. She had these glassy white eyes that Moira somehow subconsciously knew were all-seeing, and this white cotton hair that appeared to float around her head as if a breeze was constantly nearby. Moira didn’t know - could never have known - because her parents avoided the topic of death so ardently, what this woman was. What her presence heralded.

Her Mathair had brought her to the markets that day to help prepare for the summer solstice - they needed fish for grilling, bread and grain, and mead. And she was allowed a new dress for the occasion, which is what she was looking for when that strange, white woman came upon her. The cobbled streets were lined above-head with linens of every sunny colour; oranges and yellows and deep reds. The air was warm and thick with the scent of just over-ripe fruits and the light tang of sweat from what seemed like every person from the village flitting in and out of the stalls, picking up their last minute preparations for the nights’ bonfire. The noise and jostling and heat was so far removed from their quiet riverside home and Moira had never been around so many people at once that surely, surely, it was reasonable that she hadn’t noticed the angry murmuring that had risen up around her or the way that people had began to push up against the stalls the same way an ocean draws back before crashing onto shore.

Moira had just walked up to a clothing stall ran by her Mathair’s friend Alaistair, a bald and distinctly bird-like man. There was a dress at the front, this sweet little plum number, long and flowing with a gold blackbird brocade pinning the right shoulder to a small pleat. Moira moved to get Alaistair’s attention, raising her hand shyly as if to wave good morning, but he overlooked her in favour of a young man who asked for a green linen tunic hanging in the back corner of the stall. While she waited for Alaistair to be done, she felt the hem of the dress, running the soft weave between her fingers. Abruptly, Moira noticed a hazy mist rolling in across the cobblestone streets, lapping lightly around her ankles. It was cold and wet against the sun beating down on her shoulders. The light around her seemed to dim slightly, the shadows cast by the stall linens darkening almost imperceptibly. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in caution as she heard a silence fall behind her. Alaistair raised his eyes from where he was counting silver behind the counter to look just behind her shoulder, his eyes tightening in panic. Moira, against her better judgement, slowly turned her head to look over her shoulder. Scanning the crowd of onlookers behind her, her eyes came to rest on a strange woman. She saw the fear and fury on the faces of every person within her eyeline, but it was a fear that did not register. She was quietly entranced by the woman, the sureness of her steps, those deep lifeless eyes and their unwavering stare. She was striding towards Moira, lithe and elegant and fleetingly apologetic.

A woman she recognised but did not know the name of moved forward, her face strained and taut, mouth open and words of admonishment ready on her tongue when the cold woman stopped on her approach to Moira. “I’m sorry, little one”, she whispered into the silence, opening her mouth as if to scream and hair raising around her head like an angry cloud. Her lips thinned into a bloodless cracked line around a mouth that continued to stretch and stretch and stretch and stretch until her face appeared as a hole and teeth and tongue, and nothing more. Pain and sadness creased the lines around her eyes and whatever sound Moira was expecting to come out of her mouth never eventuated as the cold woman raised a single ghastly finger to point at Moira and then dropped to the stone floor with a heavy thump. Dead.

As she looked down at the dead woman in front of her, she felt not horror or disgust as was to be expected, but rather a deep-set fascination. She wanted to reach out and touch this pale lady, to feel the coldness of her skin beneath her own fingers. To feel the stillness of her heart and the absence of breath in her chest. A sudden panic at this thought gripped Moira’s heart in a vice grip, its icy tentacles shooting through her chest and down her legs until she felt paralysed from the cold. A loud buzzing sounded in her head and the market tilted sideways as Moira sagged backwards down Alaistair’s stall onto the cobblestones below. “Let me through! Please, let me through! That’s my nighean! Moira, please my girl, I’m coming!”. She could just hear her Mathair shouting through the crowd, trying to make her way through the swarm of angry villagers but they were blocking her way. The throng of people converged around Mathair, closing ranks to prevent her from moving closer. Her Mathair, in a frantic bid to break through, was shoving at the villagers shoulders, hollowly slapping against their chests. “Enough Mhairi, you know what this means”, a voice sounded from behind Moira. “You should turn around and leave the girl to us”. She felt rough hands, the same hands belonging to the voice behind her she supposed, grabbing her shoulders and rolling her onto her back. “Let her go Fionnlagh”, her Mathair said pushing again and again against the barricade of people surrounding Moira, tears welling gently in her eyes. “Mama please. I want my mama”, said Moira, her voice a hoarse breath caught in her throat, before her head drooped back and the world went black. Fionnlagh trembled as he moved to grab Moira’s shoulders again, attempting to drag her out of the mob of people surrounding the stall. Her skin was noticeably cooling beneath his touch with each passing second and a single tuft of hair played a vicious white against the young girls’ red fringe. No one paid a thought to the strange creature that was lying in the street, her body would be moved, in time, before the rats and ravens began plucking at her flesh. But for now, there were more pressing issues.

His lank hair flopped forward into his eyes as he strained to drag Moira’s body. An unconscious person was much heavier to move, dead weight pulling at the forearms and back, and Fionnlagh was unused to manual labour. “Anyone care to help out?” he called into the watching townsfolk. The same woman from before, words of rebuke for that cold woman ready and dripping from her tongue, approached Fionnlagh where he was bent over Moira’s body. Catriona, was her name, and she was a burly woman. Short and stocky, tanned arms peeking out from beneath her tunic from years of toil on her farm. Age lines marred what once would have been a handsome face, stone-grey hair pulled tight against her scalp. “I’m as eager as you to see an end to this”.

She reached to grab one of Moira’s legs, prepared to move her out of the horde of onlookers when Mhairi broke through the crowd at last. She was panicked and frantic, desperate to reach Moira before she was pulled away. Clothes in disarray and sand-hewn hair pulled loose from its once-perfect braid, she barreled towards the pair, shoving them away to crouch protectively over her daughter. “All of you turn around and go back about your business, leave my Moira alone”, she hissed, pulling a small purse-knife from her side. The action would have been threatening, had she not held the appearance of a spitting cat, cornered and afraid. One just had to look close enough to see that the fear she presented was not for Moira’s well-being, but for her family’s fate.

“Don’t be ridiculous Mhairi, put blade away and let us handle things from here. You should go home and be with Bairre,” Catriona said, her voice tinged around the edges with a hardness that could not be softened by her attempt to sound gentle and coaxing. “Take another step ‘Triona.” Mhairi’s voice quavered but her hand was steady as she raised the knife an inch. “See reason Mhairi! She’s been marked! We have a chance to put an end to these heedless deaths, people taken before their time and -” she was cut off at the end by Alaistair coming to stand by Mhairi’s side, and resting a hand on her shoulder. He was not a large or imposing man in stature, but his presence commanded a certain respect not often observed in this small town. “Let this woman take her nighean home in peace.” He spoke quietly yet his voice still carried across the square. Mhairi looked up at him, hope in her eyes, “She and Bairre deserve to say their final goodbyes before you she’s put to rest”. He looked directly at Fionnlagh at that, nodding before gently squeezing Mhairi’s shoulder. The gesture, while outwardly reassuring was just ever-so-slightly too tight, pinching a spot near her collarbone.

Moira awoke slowly, her head felt like her brain had been removed and the remaining cavity stuffed with lambswool. Her limbs were limp and heavy with a cold numb sensation, but the bed beneath her was warm and soft and she was too exhausted to pull herself from unconsciousness completely just yet. She drifted in and out for a while, letting strange dreams of men and women and children, sick and on their deathbed fill her mind. Their presence was hailed by the echo of keening, of cries of heart-wrenching grief. A soft song filling her chest at the sight and sound of them. The song was curious and one she had never heard but somehow recognised - at both times mournful and something that filled her with hope. Hope for a life beyond the one she was living, beyond the confines of her small village. It made her want to weep for the family she would leave behind in moving on and at the same time, made her unable to look back, too drawn forward towards that peaceful feeling. The song filled her body from her toes to her lungs until she was so full of breath that it was if she was balancing on that delicate precipice between life and death. And so, to let it out before the music utterly consumed her, Moira began to sing.

Or at least she thought she had started to sing. What noise that left her mouth however was nothing short of a piercing wail. The sound was that of anguish but the feeling was one of pure ecstasy and once she started, Moira found she was unable to stop the dreadful wail until the song had reached its completion. Hammering footsteps sounded around the corner of her bedroom door as her Mathair and Athair barreled into the room. The wooden door clanged against the side board and her Mathair rushed to kneel at her head, soft hands stroking her hair away from her face. “Hush my sweet girl, go back to sleep”, she said, a tender yet tight smile pulling at her cheeks. “Stop it Mhairi,” her Athair said, his voice harsh and rough in the small room. “Our daughter is gone and this thing has replaced her. You would be wise to step back before she turns her scream on you”. Her Athair was normally of a gentle disposition, auburn hair and workman’s hands rough and worn from years as a blacksmith. But that visage was gone tonight; his lip curled in disgust as he looked down at Moira. Her Mathair whirled around at that. “Nonsense Bairre - look at her”. She stood up then and made to grab Athair’s chin. “Look. at. her. She is still the same bairn I carried in me for nine moons. I would recognise her face in the darkness and no cold woman’s wail will change that. If she needs to scream, let her scream. I will not abandon her”. “That. Is not my Moira”. His voice came out barely more than a whisper, but it was enough for the disdain to carry across the room. There was this detached look in his eyes that told Moira that he didn’t believe what he was saying, but was trying to withdraw from the pain of what was to come. Her athair turned on his heel then and stalked out of the room, the door once again clanging behind him.

“Don’t worry about Papa, my sweet girl, he’ll come around I’m sure of it. He’s just afraid”. Her Mathair smiled, bending down to brush her lips against Moira’s forehead. The gesture was tender, as a Mathair should be with her bairn, but even Moira in her young age could feel the barest hint of disgust in the way her Mathair recoiled from her skin. “But why, Mama?”, the words left Moira’s mouth just as her mother turned to leave, soft and full of hope that what was broken could still be fixed. Her Mathair turned back to sit on her bed, the mattress sinking slightly beneath her weight. She smoothed the blanket around Moira, tucking it in tight to her sides, fighting to find the words to explain.

She sighed deeply and kept her eyes trained to where Moira’s hand clutched the blanket. “He’s afraid of losing you to the woman from the market,” she said tucking her hair behind her ears in a nervous gesture. She refused to make eye contact with Moira when she spoke, dancing around the question in a way that left Moira more confused than before. Why was he so afraid of losing her? And why did it make him angry, when anger was so usually an emotion outside his reach? “I don’t understand, why would the lady from the markets want to steal me? She’s dead besides, so I’m safe. Am I not?” Her mathair opened and closed her mouth, more akin to a fish than a person and suddenly held the back of her hand to Moira’s forehead. She was clearly reluctant to answer directly. “You’re looking a bit peaky hen, perhaps its best you get some more rest”, she said, her voice resolving to avoid the question, and the situation at hand. “But Mama I don’t feel sick. I just feel cold”, Moira said. A brief shudder of revulsion passed through her Mathair, so quickly replaced by a sad smile and a gentle pat on the hand, that if Moira wasn’t watching she might have missed it. “I know my girl, I know”.

Moira was left alone in her room then as her Mathair left to ‘fix up some supper’, and sleep began to draw her back in. There was a frost that had settled into Moira’s bones since the trip that late morning and it was making her slow and sleepy. She rolled onto her stomach and pressed her face against the pillow, the soft scent of feather-down lulling her into a quiet slumber this time. Still she dreamt, but instead of before where nondescript faces flitted in and out of her minds eye, this time she was met with a young boy. He was older than her but still small, tousled brown curls and a crooked playful smile. Again a mist played at his feet, at once dense and light as a flowing stream. He was dressed in tan pants and a brown flaxen shirt, beckoning her forward. “How are you here?” she asked, sitting up in her bed.

Nonplussed, he beckoned her forward again more insistently this time. She stood up from her bed and started towards him, her legs heavy and slow with hours of unuse. The closer she got to him, the more clearly that she was able to see his face. He was stood next to her mirror, just in front of her dresser drawer. His neck and arms were marred with a smattering of raw looking scabs - red and bruised apparently from picking. A singular pustule was burgeoning on his cheek near his hairline, swollen and ready to burst. The boy was afflicted with the red pox, a horrible illness that had swept through the village before Moira was born. It caused itchy boils that filled with this milk-yellow substance and could be spread by touch only. Not many survived once they came down with it, but those who did were pushed from the village in to the lower east end. Pox Creek, the villagers called it and Athair had warned her against ever going down there. “Papa certainly wouldn’t have let you in to my room, not when you’re sick mister”, she said drawing back from him. He didn’t look scary really, just sad, but she was a good daughter and Athair had told her not to interact with the afflicted. She backed up a little further and in the process caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her once vibrant copper hair was now streaked with bright white, and her eyes. Her eyes, previously the same sun-baked earthen brown of her Mathairs’ were now muted and cloudy, like the sun had drawn back before a storm.

She started, the shock of her appearance pulled Moira from her revere and she looked around blankly around her room. Her chest ached and her lungs felt squeezed of all air. She edged towards the mirror and pulled softly at her eyes, once beautiful but now eerie. There was a new liveliness in them that wasn’t immediately apparent and contradicted the apparent sightlessness of them. It made her feel strange and confused. Turning to apologise for her sudden distraction she noticed the room was once-again empty. Where had the boy gone? “Mama?”, she said peeking around the edge of her door. She was too afraid still to enter the house proper if Athair was still angry with her, but she had to know who the boy was. “Mama, who was that boy?” she repeated, slipping out from her room to stand just in the hallway. Her Mathair came around the corner, a pan and tea towel in hand. “What boy?” she asked, flipping the towel over her shoulder. “The boy that was just in my room? He had the pox and he tried to call me to him”. The pan clattered to the floor as her Mathair backed up against the wall shaking her head violently. “No. No no no, it can’t be” she murmured again and again pressing herself deeper into the wall. “What is it Mama, what did I do?” “Come here girl, come sit and I’ll explain”, her Athair’s voice sounded from the dining room, weary with an exhaustion not befitting his age.

Moira walked tentatively around the corner to the table, pulling out a weather-worn chair across from Athair. He rested his forehead to his clasped knuckles as if sending up a prayer to Dagda.

#All Clouds of Sorrow Depart

by Stuart Spore

i

That November afternoon the classroom was warm and uncomfortably dry. Dust mites floated through the still air and the children sniffled and sneezed randomly. The teacher, a short rotund person called Miss Wiggle, was explaining Armistice Day to the class. Her voice was monotonal and dry as the room itself.

There were twenty-seven children and none of them were interested in Armistice Day or wanted to have it explained to them. Few were actually listening and fewer still could have repeated Miss Wiggle's last words with any fidelity, let alone whatever words came before them. The other children daydreamed absently or semiconsciously rehearsed (with much wishful thinking) what they would say to their family that evening or to their bully the next day at recess. At the dark end of the classroom, one boy, his head down on his folded arms, slept.

Outside the day was cloudless and the sun bright. The last desicated oak leaves dropped from the trees across the blacktop playground and fluttered languidly through the still air. The sun, on its slow descent toward evening, now cast its intense light through the classroom, falling directly on the unlucky children who sat facing the windows. Along with the harsh light, the sun soon caused the already warm room to grow even stuffier. The enervated children shifted in their seats and tried to shield their eyes from the glare.

Miss Wiggle's desk faced away from the sun. If she noticed the discomfort of the children caught in the sun's assault she did not show it. Nor did she seem discomfited by the heat of the sun on her back. She droned on, "... eleven -- eleven -- eleven -- eleven ..."

Jack did not pay attention to Miss Wiggle. His desk, like hers, faced away from the windows. He looked across the room at the children who were squinting or had their eyes cast down toward their desks, trying to avoid the inescapable glare. He watched as a yawn which appeared on the face of a tall boy at the left of the classroom spread, first to a frizzy-haired girl about a third of the way along, then to another boy near the middle, and finally completed its transit on the face of a pudgy, sweaty boy in a striped t-shirt at the far right.

His hands were spread out on his desktop, palms down. Jack's nails were severely damaged. He had picked at them until there was hardly any nail left; only his thumbnails were more or less intact. He stared down at his sore and mangled nails. The soreness was generalized; it did not come from one finger or the other, but from all of them together.

The hurt was an invitation, a familiar invitation. He stared at his fingers in anticipation, then turned his hands over and pressed the lacerated nails into the hard wood desktop. He was immediately rewarded by a rush of pain, which increased as he pushed down harder. He unconsciously pressed his tongue against his lower teeth. This pain was distinct from the residual soreness he felt when his nails were not under pressure. It was more intense and no longer an invitation but a reward. He pushed down harder and the pain quickly monopolized Jack's awareness. After a few moments Jack released the pressure and felt the pain recede. He realized he had been holding his breath; he exhaled and relaxed his tongue.

Jack paused, then repeated the process, pressing his damaged fingers down harder this time. The throbbing was growing unbearable when he felt a sharp, threatening jolt of unanticipated pain in the middle finger of his right hand. He abruptly lifted his fingers and looked down at the middle finger. Close by what remained of the torn and jagged nail the nail bed was newly swollen and inflamed. He examined the swelling closely and then pressed the thumbnail of his left hand into the swollen spot. That brought on an immediate reprise of acute, alarming pain. The swelling seemed to pulse and even after he lifted his thumb away the sharp pain remained vivid.

Jack took the short steel ruler from its place near the top of the desk and held it in his left hand. He put the his right hand palm down on the desktop and pushed the sharp corner of the ruler into the swelling. The renewed pain almost made him cry out, but he mastered it and continued to press down. He felt the swelling give way and collapse. The pain receded abruptly. He dropped the ruler and looked at his finger. He saw white puss seeping up out of the nail bed. He watched the seeping puss ooze out before finally wiping the puss off on the sleeve of his shirt.

He lifted his fingers from the desk and waved them gently back and forth in the warm air. He blinked twice, then pushed his fingers back down till he felt the familiar pain return. Jack began to play with the pain. By lifting or pressing down each finger Jack could control the pain and make it dance. He pushed down on alternate fingers. He pushed down the fingers of his left hand while lifting his right hand. Then he switched off and it was his right hand's turn. Whatever was on Jack's mind before was forgotten. He may have been anxious or glad or fearful or angry or curious or bored before but now he was just in charge of the pain. It occupied him fully and time passed unnoticed.

Eventually Miss Wiggle repeated her Armistice mantra, "... eleven -- eleven -- eleven -- eleven ..." and the lesson dwindled to its listless conclusion. Miss Wiggle lifted her eyes and looked around at the children. Two children on the back row facing the windows had their heads down on their desks and were apparently asleep. The others were nodding lethargically or shielding their eyes from the still obtrusive sun. Without exception the children appeared to be hot, bored, and inattentive. Miss Wiggle did not appear to notice.

Jack folded his hands in his lap so that his fingers were concealed. It nearly time for the final bell.

ii

Armistice Day came and went and the temporary warmth of late autumn surrendered to the pervading chill of early winter. The skies were overcast and low clouds tumbled dramatically in the gusty wind. The schoolroom seemed dimmer than it really was and very dry. The girls were disconcerted by their unruly, staticky hair and the boys rubbed their wool sweaters and then surreptitiously touched the unsuspecting (preferably on the back of the neck), triggering a static discharge and making the victim jump.

Miss Wiggle was talking about Thanksgiving. She told the class that they would be hanging paper cutouts of turkeys and pilgrims in the classroom for the occasion. She seemed to be looking forward to the decorating with some eagerness. The children were familiar with these rites and welcomed them without much excitement.

Jack focused his attention on a boy in the back row of the classroom. His name was John. John had been in Jack's class since September, but it was only a couple of days before that Jack noticed him for the first time. They were at recess and by chance Jack and John ended up standing beside each other waiting to be chosen for some game or other. Jack noticed that John and he were the same height. They were built and dressed alike. Both wore their brown hair in severe crew cuts. Neither wore glasses. Jack's eyes were blue while John's eyes were brown, but Jack failed to notice. Jack was unconscious of his own eye color so it was easy for him to look at John and miss the difference. Jack also failed to notice that John's fingernails, unlike his, were intact and healthy. But fingernails and eye color aside, they were in fact similar; both were unathletic and taciturn. Neither were prominent classroom personalities.

Since that day at recess he had watched John from a distance. Jack learned that John was picked up every afternoon by his mother who drove a green and white Chevy. Jack really knew nothing else about him, but still he was in Jack's thoughts a lot, both at school and afterward. He even dreamed about him, waking in the morning with the memory of the two of them walking closely together along a path beside a slowly meandering, tidewater river. At breakfast that morning while his mother was making grits Jack asked if he had a brother. His mother said, "What? What makes you ask that?"

Jack said, "I thought I had a twin." He was himself surprised by this idea. He looked down so he didn't have to see his mother's face.

She looked at him wonderingly, and said, "No you don't have a twin. I would know if you did."

Jack said, "Oh I guess it was something I saw on TV."

"I guess so. Maybe you shouldn't watch so much TV." She paused, then admonished him, "Don't miss the bus this morning, hear?"

"Yes ma'am."

Jack had not spoken to John since that day at recess. However strong his curiosity it didn’t overcome his reticence. Or his fear, which he did not consciously acknowledge to himself. He felt connected to John but if there was a bond it was a remote, distrustful one and completely one-sided.

Looking across the classroom, he watched John surreptitiously. John seemed to be listening to Miss Wiggle's Thanksgiving plans with more attention than they warranted. Jack wondered if he really could be John's brother. Is he my twin? What is a twin really? Was there a way for twins to be separated that adults didn't know about? He was aware that adults made lots of mistakes and were often wrong about things they told children.

At noon the children lined up and walked to the cafeteria. Jack happened to be seated across from Edna, a lanky tomboy who lived just down the road from Jack. They had known each other for about four years and were used to playing together. Of all the children Jack knew Edna best and the other way round. After eating Edna wanted to have a contest to see who could stare the other in the eye longest without blinking. They did that, but when Edna easily beat Jack for the second time, she said, "Sorry, Jack."

"I'm not Jack. You mean that guy other there," Jack pointed to where John was seated two tables over. Edna looked, then said, "Ha Ha. That's John. You're Jack."

"Can't tell the difference, can you?" replied Jack.

"You kidding me?" said Edna, cocking her eye at him.

"You never noticed we're twins?"

"No. Cause you're not twins. Maybe you're a nitwit, but you and John ain't twins. You two don't even look that much alike."

Jack was hurt. Back in the classroom he looked again at John on the other side of the room. He had been sure they were brothers, but now he wondered if he might be wrong. It made him sad. For the next couple of days Jack continued to observe John at a distance and continued feeling sad and confused.

iii

Two days later it turned wet and blustery. The rain was intermittent but heavy and icy cold. It got worse as the day went on; by time to go home the day had become very dark indeed. Along with about a dozen other children, Jack waited in the lobby. Their bus hadn't shown up on schedule and the monitor kept consulting his clipboard and fretting about the delay. Peering out the window Jack could make out a line of cars waiting to pick up children. He wiped the condensation away but between the rain and the constantly shifting glare from the headlights it was difficult to see anything clearly. The other children were chattering mindlessly and giggling; the lobby was claustrophobic and uncomfortably warm.

Jack zipped up his jacket and walked out the door to stand outside in the roofed waiting area. The wind blew a gust of cold rain directly in his face. Jack quickly worked his way around to a slightly better protected position where he could see the cars as they pulled up, picked up their passengers, and drove off, splashing plumes of rain water over the curb and sidewalk as they drove away. About five cars, one after the other, arrived and left before he saw the green and white Chevy pull up behind the first car in line.

He watched the Chevy closely. He could just see the driver's silhouette. Then a turning car illuminated the Chevy and Jack caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver. She was wearing a clear plastic rain scarf which diffused and reflected the glaring, shifting light. The driver turned her head his way and Jack was shocked to see that it was his mother driving. His mouth opened. He was bewildered. He felt himself go weak all over. Almost immediately the driver turned away. Jack saw John run from lobby and reach for the door of the Chevy. Headlights lit up the car and as John climbed in he got another view of the driver. It was not his mother. She was like his mother, but the evanescent light made it difficult to make out details. Jack was confused. He watched the Chevy drive off in the rain.

The next day in class Jack couldn't take his eyes off John. The mid-morning recess was cancelled because it was too cold and rainy out. Instead Miss Wiggle led the class in singing songs from their songbook. They started with "Sweet Betsy from Pike." Jack paid little attention. He had the songbook open in front of him, but it wasn't open to the right page and he only mimicked what the other children sang. He pressed his fingernails into the hard wood desktop and stared at John.

John was faultless. John sat straight up at his desk, his songbook open before him, his mouth shaping the words as he sang. He looked clean and well cared for, untroubled and content. The song ended and a smile played across John's face. Jack unconsciously pressed his fingernails down harder. The longer Jack watched the more perfect John seemed. John did not notice Jack.

Jack remembered the driver in the rain from the day before. He recalled the capricious, uneasy light and the hard rain. He was still very confused by the driver’s shifting appearance. How could he be sure who was driving? Who had he seen? He tried to summon an image of his mother’s face in his imagination but was disturbed to discover that he could not.

The children’s singing seemed to slow down as if someone was pressing their finger against a spinning record

Jack had last seen his mother that morning in the kitchen, but he hadn’t actually looked at her. He should know what she looked like anyway. He had seen her everyday of his life. But now it was as if he had never seen her face. Jack knew he was shy; eye-contact with adults embarrassed him. He didn’t know why, but now he wished he hadn’t always looked away. He willfully demanded that her image appear, but the harder he tried the less distinct his memory of his mother's face became. Finally it faded into a flimsy silhouette, a image without substance or meaning. He pushed his tongue into the back of his teeth and unconsciously held his breath.

The singing lost its melody, ceased being music, and became a hiss. For a moment Jack thought the entire classroom was hissing him. He looked around anxiously. The children were not paying attention to him. Jack exhaled. The hiss faded abruptly and singing resumed as if nothing had happened.

Jack realized that the person he thought was his mother was in fact John's. It all fit. He didn't have a twin. He didn't have a mother. She was really John's mother. He was sitting in the classroom with the other children but he was not like them. He was not what he had thought he was. None of the other children had figured it out, but he had. He didn't want them to find out.

Quickly he took his eyes off John and focused instead on the blackboard at the front of the room. The blackboard was blank, recently wiped clean. Jack took up the songbook and found the page. He lifted his voice and began to sing with the other children:

"Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;

Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

Lull'd by the moonlight have all passed away!"

end

Unit 32B was rarely silent. The Occupant and his wife always argued. The occupant’s children constantly whined. The unit whirred with the sounds of machines as it prepared dinner for the occupant and his wife, while they argued. “When will you finally start looking for a job? My income won’t support us all forever.” chastised the wife. This was not the first time they’d had this conversation. “I’ve told you, I’m trying.” He responded exasperated. “Trying? You’ve applied to what? You’ve interviewed for what? You’ve done nothing but sit on your ass the past month. When are you going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and support your family!” As the wife's voice escalated, so did the crying of the children. Unit 32B chimed throughout, signaling the completion of dinner. The occupants of unit 32B suddenly ended their noise to eat. They ate separately. They ate Silently. Unit 32B was hardly silent. The next day a package addressed to the occupant was left at the door of unit 32B. The occupant opened the package and pulled out a shining blue box lettered in chrome. The reflective lettering, which read “Realtec” was imprinted on the box. The occupant wasted no time opening the box and dawning the contents. A sleek black headpiece wrapped around the occupant's eyes and ears, immersing him in darkness. The occupant slid his finger across the side of the headpiece, pressing a chrome button ingrained with the same logo as the box, the darkness became light, and the earpieces made a mechanical noise as they muffled the sound around the occupant, drowning out the whining of his children and the whirring of the machines. “Welcome to Realtec!” A cheery, slightly mechanical voice chimed in. “Realtec is a virtual reality, the real-life simulation! We use a state-of-the-art virtual reality emersion to offer you an ultra-real experience!” added the voice. The occupant simply listened, unsure if it was necessary to respond to the voice. The light in the occupant's eyes faded into a new environment, a home. This home was far different from Unit 32B, It did not feel like a unit, but an actual home, and was furnished in a way that the occupant felt familiar and comfortable. “Welcome to Realtectopolis! Your name is spencer! Here at Realtektopolis, you may do anything you want! You can live out your dream job or hobby! You can fulfil your dreams of fame and fortune all here! Your name is Spencer. You have a wife, a daughter, and two cats here in Realtektopolis. Please enjoy your stay, and remember, all you need to do to leave the game is simply desire to do so!” Announced the cheery mechanical voice.
Several hours had passed since the occupant of Unit 32B had dawned the headpiece. The children of Unit 32B cried while he stayed in his virtual world but he did not notice. Spencer’s child never cried or complained, but instead filled his home with laughter. The door to Unit 32B opened wide as the occupant’s wife returned from work. She was not happy. She could hear her children crying from outside the unit. She entered the room to see her husband laying unresponsive on their couch with a black headpiece wrapped around his face. When the occupant of Unit 32B finally removed the headset his wife was angry, and so of course, they argued.
“Seriously?” She asked angrily. “While I am providing for this entire family, you’re spending my money on this virtual crap!” she was seething. The occupant of Unit 32B had nothing to say. Spencer’s wife was never angry with him. She did not argue but instead filled their home with joy. “You need to get your life together, if you continue to be a deadweight to this family, I’m going to leave you.” This was not her first time making this threat, but the occupant of unit 32B knew that he would not get another chance. Spencer opened his eyes as he rolled over to face his wife. He smiled at her as the sun shone through the window, hitting her face just right. Spencer thought about how beautiful his wife was, remembering all the reasons he had married her in the first place. She began to stir as well, and Spencer, sensing his movement had awoken her, apologized. “How did you sleep dear?” she asked, shrugging off the apology. “I slept fine but I had that same dream.” he offered in response. “Which one was it?” she asked carefully. “The one I’ve been having, about the family that is always fighting” As he explained he found himself more and more confused, within himself he had such a strong feeling that this was not a dream, and yet what else could it be? “That sounds like such a horrible way to live, but that is not our reality my love” she replied in sympathy. “I know it is not our reality” replied Spencer solemnly. The occupant of Unit 32B removed the headset that was now so familiar to him. As he removed it the occupant of Unit 32B noticed a silence. Unit 32B was hardly silent. As the occupant’s stomach rumbled he rose from his seat, stretching his stiff joints as he did. The occupant surveyed his small unit, from the main room he could turn to see the entire rest of the unit, but no one else was there with him. He was entirely alone. The occupant of Unit 32B returned to his seat, and with his face, in his hands, he cried. For hours he cried, filling the unit with the familiar sounds of anguish. Spencer no longer dreamt of turmoil. He had slept soundly for weeks and the dream of his twisted reality that once plagued him nightly no longer returned. Each night Spencer slept a dreamless sleep. Each morning Spencer woke up in his happy home next to his happy wife with his happy family. Unit 32B was silent. It had been for weeks.

Hi Everyone. I'm taking a creative writing course at university and I wrote the following piece. As it is my first time writing second person I would love some feedback from general readers or others who write second person pov stories. Any feedback is very much appreciated.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vyTjnA2LJHTekecpgBWEOiMyciQ0-3Mwjutj-LWbL1I/edit?usp=sharing

Hey guys , my name is Zain and it's my first time to write a short story and please avoid the grammar mistakes because English is not my first language. And if you have some advice for me to improve comment it.

So it's a story about a boy Jake who is a teenager but the problem is his communication skills aren't that good

that's why he doesn't have friends in his high school, to avoid the feeling of loneliness he decided to make a friend online , so he started to commenting on videos like " tell you're age and find your buddy" so he comment on videos like this and he get a response with a boy named " Andrew " and they started to chat , play games together , and talk on calls.

but one thing that make Jake feel weird that he always declined his video calls, so one day Jake play truth or dare with him and Jake has a plan that he would ask him why he declined his video calls but his questions are so weird like "do you live alone" "does you're parents know where you visit the most" and these types of questions make Jake afraid so he decided to block him.

but the mistakes that he made is he gave him his house address his number and so many photos of him in locations that he liked, and that much information is enough for someone to find you.

After that Jake started to always be afraid and anxious for months, for him sleeping is like a challenge but when nothing happened for months he started to calm down but one day jake dad friend visit him in our house and Jake sit with them to but one thing he noticed that his voice is just like Andrew and after that that trauma hit Jake again.

And on Monday 19 August 2018 Jake has been kidnapped by his school and after the kidnapper was his Dad friend and his real name was Kevin.

And fortunately Jake is alive but his mental health is so messed up, so to all the teenager's who makes friends online and tell them everything, there making a mistake .

That's it please guide me about my mistakes so I can improve more.

A TRUER FRIEND

They go outside and salute the day

The neighbors hear them from miles away

Might be a leaf or a unicorn

They live to bark from the day they're born

I would not trade them for a pot of gold

They have a love that can't be sold

In a world that's spinning 'round and 'round

A truer friend cannot be found.

©2024KerryShoemaker

Hi everyone, I just wrote a poem about my restless thoughts at night. Interestingly, I wrote it at the exact time as I named the topic. I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.

THE 3 AM POEM

It's 3 AM in the clock, darkness is falling, and winter winds are trailing. The world lies unsurprisingly silent, as I sit in solitude, my sleep scattered.

Is it caffeine or the habit? That's what they used to ask. But have they never felt the loss of their innocence?

There was a time with warmer nights, and I felt my shoulders light. My eyes crave a glimpse of meadows, But they left me in a room of echoes.

How many times can you hold a hand that pushes you to the edges? It's 3:30 AM on the clock; perhaps I'll set aside my grudges.

Hello everyone.

I'm new in Reddit. I've been writing for 5 years, and I usually get feedbacks from my close friends. I hope you like it. I'll be waiting for your comments and critiques. Thank you in advance.

A Knock on the Door

I heard a knock on the door. It was five in the morning, and everyone was asleep. The streets, the house, everything was asleep. The dusk hadn’t shown its bluish face yet, and the darkness was the only one to conquer the sphere. There were some raindrops on the windows. I didn’t know whether it really knocked or not, but I had a strange feeling in my gut. At first I thought it was just another moment in which I confused the real and the dream. Yet not even a minute later, it knocked again. It was real. I quickly got out of bed, but I wasn’t able to see much if there were anybody. I heard the thunder outside rambling the windows. I got anxious. I didn't know what to do. I walked around the room. Cars were passing on the wet road, and the blowing wind could be heard. Then I moved out of my room to get a knife to protect myself lest anything happens. It looked familiar somehow but I was too occupied to think of it. I waited in the darkness and then came another tapping.

Thud, thud, thud.

It was echoing in my head nonstop as if it would never knock again. Why was someone at my door at this time of night? Did I do something wrong? Then I saw a shadow behind me. A tall man with a long coat. He had a cowboy hat unnecessarily. With a quick dash forward, I turned my back and there was nothing. There was just a street light flickering without a reason. Then my cat hopped onto the plate which I left after dinner. It fell on the ground with the hop, scattered around with little pieces. I stuck there for about a minute after going through two incidents at once. My heart was pounding, and as if it could be heard from outside, there came another tapping on the door.

Thud, thud, thud.

This time my body wholly reacted. I was feeling my skin was stretched out, my hand was trembling, my lungs were not filling, I was feeling dizzy and my gut had a different feeling which I cannot describe with words of this pitiful world. I cleaned the sweat of my head. The cat was purring and licking its feet indifferent to the situation. I should have adopted a dog instead of him, though he was good companion. I tried to get to my room trying not to touch the plate’s shattered pieces. I took my phone and opened my flashlight and watched the door. My phone’s battery died the minute I took it to my hand, but the door was there, in front of me, and there came another tapping. Who was behind the door and why it was harassing me that time of the night?

Thud, thud, thud.

It was getting uneasy. I wasn’t able to answer the questions in my head. Who was that behind the door? Was it some kind of a killer? Was it a joke pulled up on me? There might be a couple of reasons. First, I was a very annoying man with no filter. I could have hurt someone with my words, and one of them might have come to kill me and dump me on a forest until someone find my decayed body. Another reason is that I had a couple of students who did not take my classes seriously, and I gave them an F1. The intruder might have ended up on my door to kill me or pull me some kind of a scary joke. With the flickering light of the street, I slowly walked to the door and there came another knocking on the door. Without a relent, the intruder, behind the door, was tapping.

Thud, thud, thud.

I was afraid to look through the peephole. It was dangerous anyway. The intruder might have a gun and could shoot me in the eye, and I would die behind doors instantly. It was too much of risk to take. I was also thinking while slowly going to the door, what if it wasn’t here to kill me but to talk. What if? The idea of talk soothed me a little bit. I was longing for a talk for a long time. There came another tapping on the door but this time more different.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Was the intruder trying to give a signal? Was he a friend of mine, and was this our code of friendship? I wasn’t sure. I had never been sure my whole life. What should have I done? I was getting more and more anxious, and I went to the door and found to courage to ask who it was? I asked and no answer was given except a slightly lesser tapping on the door. I realized that it might be a drunkard. Maybe… Maybe it was only a stupid drunkard who forgot his house. Maybe it was the end for me. The only thing that I had to do was open the door and face the truth, but it was not that easy. I loved to be alive. I asked again and nothing… I gently touched the door handle without any options to take and then came a squeak. I opened the door, echoing in the building, and, luckily, there was no one at the door. I looked around and I was not able to see anybody. It was just a perfume left on the corridor of the building that I live in. It was sugary and definitely a woman’s perfume. I closed the door with a huge relief. I took a deep breath and I got to bed with the knife in my hand. The minute I put my head on the pillow, my old alarm clock rang. It was time to go to work. Thank God, no one came and found the dead bodies in my bathtub.

hi this is the intro from my cosmic horror detective novel I've been writing for a bit now any feedback would be appreciated its a bit grim and I'm a little worried about the flow but thanks for reading!

# The Hartley Murders

The entity pulsed with anticipation.

In a world devoid of colour, the creature's senses thrummed with the vibrant crimson of fresh blood. It was all it could see, all it wanted to see. The Hartley home, once a bastion of familial warmth, now resonated with the sickly sweet scent of fear and the promise of violence.

The entity shifted, its form a nauseating blur of man, woman, neither, and both. Blood-soaked and grotesque, it wore the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley like ill-fitting masks, features subtly wrong in ways that defied human anatomy. Its very existence was an affront to reality, a cosmic joke that laughed in the face of physics and biology.

With inhuman speed, it tore into the Hartley's flesh. Bones snapped like brittle twigs, organs rupturing in a symphony of gore. The creature revelled in the carnage, its alien mind pulsing with a pleasure beyond human comprehension. It twisted the bodies into shapes that defied human understanding, creating a macabre Möbius strip of intertwined limbs and torsos.

Blood spattered the walls in fractal patterns, defying gravity and the laws of physics. The entity's alien senses perceived each droplet as a burst of ecstasy, a promise of more violence to come. The room itself seemed to warp and bend, reality struggling to contain the horror unfolding within its confines.

As it completed its grisly work, the creature's attention snapped to the closet. It could sense the rapid heartbeat of the child within, a staccato rhythm that sang of fresh blood yet to be spilled. The air crackled with potential energy, the universe holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

Emily Hartley, age 10, huddled in the corner of the closet, her small frame wracked with silent sobs. Through the slats in the door, she watched in horror as the nightmare unfolded. The sickening crack of bone and the wet tearing of sinew filled the air, punctuated by inhuman sounds of pleasure that no human throat could produce.

Time seemed to stretch and distort, each second an eternity of terror. Emily's mind struggled to process what her eyes were seeing, her young psyche teetering on the brink of shattering completely. The once-familiar living room had become an alien landscape, painted in shades of crimson and shadow.

Blood sprayed in impossible patterns, defying gravity and the laws of physics. Emily's eyes widened as she saw the crimson mist crystallize in mid-air, forming intricate, fractal-like structures that shimmered with an otherworldly light. These crystalline formations hung suspended, each one a miniature universe of horror and beauty.

A fine dusting of this crystalline blood made its way through the slats, coating Emily in a gossamer-thin, shimmering haze. As she inhaled sharply in fear, some of the microscopic crystals entered her lungs. In that instant, Emily's perception of reality shattered like a mirror struck by a hammer.

The world around her seemed to fold in on itself, revealing layers of existence she had never known possible. Colours she couldn't name danced at the edges of her vision, and the very air seemed alive with pulsing, geometric patterns. Sound became visible, light had texture, and time itself seemed to flow in multiple directions at once.

But it was the thing in the living room that truly broke her. As Emily's new senses adjusted, she saw the entity for what it truly was - a being of geometries that bent the mind, existing in multiple dimensions at once. Its form shifted and writhed, sometimes wearing the faces of her parents like grotesque masks, other times revealing glimpses of something so alien that her mind recoiled in terror.

Emily's mouth opened in a silent scream, her young psyche struggling to process the horrors she was witnessing. In that moment, she knew that nothing would ever be the same. The veil had been lifted, and she could never un-see the terrible truths of the universe. Reality as she had known it was a thin façade, hiding a cosmos of terror and wonder that defied comprehension.

The entity paused in its bloody work, its ever-shifting form seeming to sniff the air. For a heart-stopping moment, Emily thought it had sensed her. She could feel its alien awareness brush against her mind, a touch that threatened to unravel her very being. But then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the creature vanished.

In its wake, it left behind a scene of carnage that defied explanation. The bodies of Emily's parents lay twisted and broken, their forms a mockery of human anatomy. The walls dripped with blood that moved and pulsed as if alive. And throughout the room, reality itself seemed to ripple and warp, struggling to reassert itself in the aftermath of the cosmic violation it had endured.

As Emily's altered senses began to stabilize, she became aware of a new sound. Distant at first, but growing closer with each passing second. It was a rhythmic thudding, like the beating of a great heart. And beneath it, she could hear voices, speaking words that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of existence:

"Rapid Response Team moving in. Prepare for reality stabilization protocols."

Emily didn't understand the words, but she felt their power. As the sounds grew closer, the world around her began to shift once more. The blood-soaked horror of her home started to fade, replaced by a more mundane, if still gruesome, crime scene.

Panic gripped Emily's heart. She knew, with a certainty that defied her young age, that she couldn't let these people find her. Not like this. Not when she could still see the layers of reality shifting around her.

With a strength born of desperation, Emily forced her trembling legs to move. She crawled deeper into the closet, pushing past hanging clothes and boxes, searching for any hiding spot that might conceal her from the approaching team.

As she burrowed into a pile of old blankets, Emily's mind raced. The universe had revealed its true face to her, and she knew she could never go back to the life she had known. But what lay ahead? What would become of her now?

The voices grew louder, more distinct. Emily held her breath, her small body tense with fear and anticipation. She could hear footsteps now, moving methodically through the house. Closer and closer they came.

In that moment, as Emily huddled in her makeshift sanctuary, the future stretched before her like an vast, unknowable void. She had seen behind the veil of reality, and that knowledge would shape her destiny in ways she couldn't yet imagine.

The door to the closet creaked open, and Emily squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to disappear. Whatever happened next would set in motion a chain of events that would ripple through time and space, altering the course of Emily's life and the lives of those around her in ways no one could predict.

Also I posted this on my old account that was previously hacked, and it removed it automatically, if it comes back I'm sorry for duplication